


No one won the war

by logicalcomplexity



Series: Green and Gold [1]
Category: The Pacific (TV)
Genre: Beautiful creatures au, But not really because I took the premise and ran with it, M/M, So just magic AU, World War II, canonical character deaths
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-03-08
Packaged: 2019-10-20 11:49:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17621843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/logicalcomplexity/pseuds/logicalcomplexity
Summary: Merriell has dark magic and a guilty conscious. He never considered how the war would change them.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Notes:  
> I watched the movie Beautiful Creatures several years ago, took the magical premise and ran with it. The magic in this universe barely follows the laws of the novels and movie. Characters and events are inspired by The Pacific HBO series, some anecdotes from the real Eugene Sledge and Sidney Phillips, and other roles that Rami Malek and Joe Mazzello have played. I mean no disrespect to anyone. This thing sort of wrote itself. Figured I'd post it considering the recent revival in this fandom.  
> Specific warnings will be listed here before each chapter. For example, here be gore and violence.

Merriell went to war for his mother. On her deathbed, she pressed a dog tag and a willow wood ring into his hand and begged him to aid the mortals—those beautiful, fragile creatures. The rest of the family sneered at her request and jeered when he volunteered for the Marines.

His cousin Jean tried to talk him out of joining even as he drove him to the train station to leave for boot camp. “You don’t know any spells that will protect you from bullets. You’re being a damn fool.”

Merriell shrugged. “It’s what Ma woulda wanted.”

“Your ma was a damn fool. Any caster who goes fallin’ in love with mortals is a fool.” Jean spat. The vitriol in his voice didn’t bother Merriell anymore. He learned at a young age that his mother was the black sheep of the family. She was a light caster when everyone else used dark and was knocked up by a man who didn’t stay. Merriell’s mother never spoke about his father but the rumors point towards a mortal soldier who died sometime during the occupation of the Caribbean. The dog tag that his mother gave him partially confirmed the rumor, bearing the initials “H. O. W.” and a Marine Corps designation “J Company 1st Battalion”.

However, Merriell was not so sure his father was mortal. The willow wood ring accompanying the dog tag hummed with light magic. He wore it on the middle finger of his right hand and the energy buzzing over his skin felt like one of his mother’s good luck charms, but the magic signature wasn’t hers.

“Call me a fool then,” Merriell muttered under his breath, rubbing the pad of his thumb over the wooden ring. Considering its previous owner was dead, he doubted the charm worked but he wasn’t one to judge. He could only do the most basic “swamp magic”.

His family made most of their money hustling tourists with voodoo and bayou tours. His grandma, aunts, and female cousins—all dark casters—crafted voodoo dolls and hex bags ripe with curses that made your hair or teeth fall out and spells that gave you nightmares or trapped your mind in your deepest fears. His uncles and male cousins controlled the beasts and plants of the swamp. It sounded impressive but the male Sheltons were quite weak with magic. The best they could do was see in the dark, lure alligators to the surface of the water, and locate rare fungi or flowers.

Merriell was not the strongest caster in his family by any means but having even a little power meant he was better off than many of the mortals he fought beside. His ability to see in the dark proved to be especially advantageous at Cape Gloucester, in the first of many battles against the Japanese. He saw the enemy lurking in the forest long before any of the other soldiers and his early warning meant his company saw the fewest casualties. His foresight didn’t make battle any less frightening. The same spell that heightened his vision increased the terror—he could see with startling clarity the whites of the enemy’s eyes, the blood pouring from bayonet gashes, bullet holes, and jagged shrapnel wounds, the instant a man’s last breath left his body. An overload of stimulus left him trembling, incapable of winding down in the warm morning light, unable to ever shake the brutality of mankind from his memory.

Humans were fragile, yes, but not beautiful.

He became so damn jumpy after Gloucester that the company began calling him Snafu—situation normal, all fucked up. He started chain-smoking, a habit encouraged by the other veterans who were so grateful for his keen eyes that they shared their cigarettes with him when he ran out. He had always smoked, hell, everyone in his family did, but now he barely spent a daylight hour without a cigarette. Before the war, he lit them with a snap of his fingers but now he was so drained of magic, he used a dented mechanical lighter pilfered from a corpse.

Being on Pavuvu after their sojourn in Melbourne, while not a vacation by any stretch of the imagination, meant the men could continue to relax and recharge. Merriell felt absolutely miserable. The bright city lights had distracted him from the sores on his skin and the aching in his body. Worse yet, the ever-present tingle of magic in his chest was gone. He couldn’t tell if he had truly run out, he just knew he couldn’t do even the simplest spells. On Gloucester, sharpening his senses had been second nature, and now he couldn’t bring the smallest flame into existence. He was starting to think his family was right. Using magic for mortals was a fool’s errand indeed.

Back home, on clear nights under the full moon, they would bring offerings of fresh flowers and sweets to ancestral shrines deep in the swamp. It was tradition, a plea to keep the magic in the family. “Magic is like a fickle girl,” his uncle Roman would drawl, “You take an’ take but never give back then she gon’ leave ya.”

Merriell always thought the offerings were bullshit, but now he was beginning to think they worked. He was sitting on his cot, absentmindedly rubbing the willow wood ring, contemplating how screwed he would be the next time he shipped out, when three privates stepped into the tent. Merriell could tell right away that the boys were straight from Stateside and green as spring twigs. The fatigues they wore weren’t stained or faded, their skin pale and clean. One of them was a redhead and his shiny copper hair caught Merriell’s attention immediately. He talked in a well-bred Southern way. Merriell didn’t hear what he was saying because suddenly there was magic—light magic—rushing over his skin like water. 

Their eyes met. The boy had brown eyes, big and dark like a deer’s, rich and warm like newly-tilled earth. They flashed green. Merriell suddenly felt very small, like a child again, breaking one of his Ma’s nice plates or tracking mud all over her freshly scrubbed floors. He hated it, hated this new recruit, and, when the boy moved to take one of the free cots in the tent, he threw his dirty boots onto the cot and spat “Taken.”

The boy quirked a brow at him but said nothing and left. His magic lingered, bitter and sharp as fresh cut grass. As though out of spite, Merriell felt his own flare back to life.

“Geez, Snafu, you didn’t have to be so mean,” One of the other veterans commented. “A new recruit is going to end up in that cot whether you like it or not.”

Merriell scowled around a new cigarette. Carefully, he brought the lighter up, but it was just an act. He willed a flame onto his thumb, allowed himself a little hum of triumph when it appeared, and lit the cigarette. He took a slow drag, letting the smoke curl out through his nostrils.

“I know. That boy just seemed a fool to me.” 

—

Merriell didn’t see the recruit again until they fetched up against each other on the Amtrak to Peleliu. He tried not to bother with the new men, didn’t want to learn their names just to watch them die, but talk from the other vets meant he knew Sledge’s name. Eugene Sledge, respectable and God-fearing as any other Southern gentlemen in the Pacific Islands, had a reputation for being kind and calming.

“There’s something about Sledge,” Burgin muttered once, scratching his head at how Merriell was kicking his ass at cards for a third time in a row. The funny thing about that was Merriell wasn’t cheating. “Just feel calmer, safer when he’s around. He’s got that clergyman aura, like if you die right in front of him, he’ll carry you to heaven himself.”

Merriell hadn’t said anything at the time, but he suspected that Sledge used healing magic. He’d heard of such power, of restorative hands and words in the Acadian parishes of Louisiana, but he’d never seen it. Not until he threw up on Sledge’s shoe, stomach roiling from seasickness that he’d unintentionally amplified by casting his favored eyesight buff. Sledge laid a hand on his shoulder wordlessly and the nausea was chased away by the cooling sensation of river water, just like in the tent the first time they laid eyes on each other. Merriell wasn’t religious, but it felt like a baptism.

He gaped at Sledge, who acted as though nothing had happened, brown eyes set straight ahead. Merriell though, he could see everything, the minor illusion hiding the preternatural green in his irises, the frantic pulse in his neck, and the sweat beading out of individual pores. Now that he wasn’t sick, his magic felt like lava in his chest, bubbling and pulsing, desperate to get out and wreck some shit. His grandma could turn into a panther, and while no male Shelton had ever done that, he felt like he could right now.

Instead, he took out his pack of cigarettes, itching to do something with his hands. He offered one to Sledge.

Then Sledge looked at him, _really_ looked at him, and the blank expression on his face made Merriell feel odd. There it was again, that niggling feeling that he was disappointing his mother. “I don’t smoke.”

“Yeah?” Merriell drawled. With Sledge’s gaze still focused on him, he lit his own cigarette with his fingers. Sledge remained neutral and that got under his skin, made him want to shake this perfect preacher’s son and shout until he got a rise out of him. But war was not a time for pulling pigtails, and soon enough the front of their craft crunched against the sand of Peleliu and Merriell was lost to the overwhelming cacophony of singing bullets, explosions, and shouting.

In Cape Gloucester, their amphibious assault had been met with no resistance, but the Japanese on Peleliu were settled into the craggy rocks overlooking the beach. Merriell could just barely see them with his amplified eyesight, meaning the mortals and Sledge couldn’t see them at all. Being an average marksman, he did what he could, taking quick shots while scurrying from cover to cover. Several hours later, their company had made it past the beach, into a coconut grove within sight of the airfield, and command ordered the mortar squads to hold back and start shelling. 

Merriell squatted in the shade of a scraggly bush to wait for a squad to form up around him. He had the gun, he just needed a loader and a leader, preferably De L’Eau and Burgin. The sun gleamed off the pale sand and rocks, stinging his eyes. He wondered just what Sledge had done to him. The vision enhancement spell had never made him feel so wired. It was doing more somehow, and everything was magnified—smell, sound, and heat. Without the battle to focus on, he was boiling alive, choking on the iron tang of blood and gunpowder.

“Alright, Snafu?” Burgin’s familiar voice broke through the sound of blood rushing in his ears, accompanied by the cool whiff of Sledge’s magic. Merriell snapped his head up to look at the Texan and the caster, blinking furiously against the bright light.

“Been better,” he grumbled. “Where’s De L’Eau?”

“Teamed up with another leader, but Sledge is as good a loader as any. Let’s get set up.”

Merriell jumped at the chance to focus on anything but his heightened senses and the three men had their gun up and firing within minutes. The sound of the gun was deafening, had Merriell’s ears ringing, and the world narrowed down. It was just him, the gun, and Burgin shouting degree adjustments that he couldn’t even hear so he relied on lip reading skills that he had fine-tuned on Gloucester. Every once and awhile, some officer gestured for them to move up and shell new positions. Then, as the sun started slipping towards the horizon, the shelling stopped.

Merriell still couldn’t hear and he carefully watched Burgin’s exchange with their commanding officer, trying to discern what their next actions would be. Sledge tapped his arm and he jumped, turning to scowl at him. The redhead looked at him expectantly, frowning.

“I can’t fuckin’ hear,” Merriell growled. “The mortar blew my goddamn eardrums out.”

Sledge huffed, annoyed and red faced from sunburn. He spoke slow and deliberate, lips curling carefully around every syllable. “They want us to take the airfield. We go in half an hour. Can I borrow your Ka-Bar?”

“What? You lose yours?”

Sledge shook his head, a deeper red flush spreading from his face to his ears and down his neck as he lifted up an unlabeled C-ration. His Ka-Bar was jammed awkwardly into the lid.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Merriell snatched the can from him, cracking it open expertly before handing it back.

“You should eat something,” Sledge enunciated, taking the ration with a grateful nod. He gestured at the surrounding men in their company for emphasis, each settling down to their own afternoon meals. Merriell glared at the glistening, congealed mess of mysterious meat and vegetables in Sledge’s C-ration. Between the static in his ears and the bright afternoon sun, the thought of eating made his stomach lurch and he shook his head. His mouth felt sticky and dry, so he sipped at his canteen instead, turning his attention to the airfield on the horizon. The Japanese skulked around burned out buildings and the skeletal remains of airplanes, shooting steadily at the company slightly ahead of them. He didn’t envy those men.

Taking out a smoke, Merriell settled back against a pile of rocks, his gaze falling back on Sledge, who had set his food aside and was in the middle of taking his boots off. He shot up, lurching towards him. “Have you gone fuckin’ Asiatic?”

Sledge startled, eyes wide and confused. “My feet are wet.”

“An’ how you gonna run in your stockin’ feet if the Japs bust through the line?”

Sheepish and somehow even redder than before, Sledge pulled his boots back on. He muttered something, too quick for Merriell to read.

“What’d you say?”

Sledge didn’t respond, just kept methodically lacing up his boots. When he finished, he crossed their little hollow and crouched close, one hand on Merriell’s knee and the other shielding his mouth from the rest of the men. “Got any spells to fix your hearing?”

“Ain’t that your job,” He hissed back.

Sledge tilted his head, brow furrowing, and his fingers tightened around Merriell’s bony knee. Magic radiated outwards from his fingertips like ripples on a pond. “I’m serious.”

Merriell’s own magic bubbled up again, burning unpleasantly, and he closed his eyes. He did know a spell that changed the target’s hearing threshold, but it had never worked for him back home. He wasn’t strong enough then but perhaps he could do it now. He opened his eyes again and Sledge was staring at him expectantly. “Do I turn it up or down?”

“Make all noise go away first and hold it there,” Sledge mouthed. So Merriell did, and the static in his ears faded away until he was left with blissful silence. He felt oddly giddy at the success of the spell. After a few moments, Sledge gestured with his thumb for him to turn the threshold up. When Merriell did, the ringing was gone, and he could hear as clear as crystal.

“Next time remember to reduce your hearing sensitivity before we start firing.” Sledge chided, removing his hand. His magic lingered though, in the weirdly tingly way that it always did.

“Trying to make yourself feel like less of a fool?” Merriell sneered instead of thanking him.

The redhead shrugged and dropped his gaze. “Just trying to help.”

“K company!” Their captain, a New Englander nicknamed Ack Ack, called out to them as he jogged up with Gunny Haney in tow. “Change of plans. We’re moving to take the airfield ASAP. Riflemen first, then launchers and mortars.”

“Ah fuck.” Merriell shared a tired look with Burgin.

“You heard Ack Ack, riflemen up and at ‘em! Weapons count your ammo.” Haney bellowed, chasing the scattered riflemen out of their hiding spots. The rest of the company stirred, stowing their things and taking stock of their ammunition. As Merriell, Burgin, and Sledge packed up, De L’eau appeared with one of the new boots.

“Glad to see you made it, Oswalt.” Sledge nodded to the curly haired man.

“I got extra ammo,” Oswalt replied, holding up the pouches of mortars that dangled from his arm. “Fuck if I know how I made it. We set up in a bad spot.”

Burgin’s mouth twisted. “Where’s your leader?”

“Lost an eye, poor son of a bitch,” De L’Eau tsked, patting the rocket launcher over his shoulder. “Can’t find another so it looks like I’ll be taking out tanks while Oswalt here keeps us fully loaded.”

“Works for me.” Burgin flicked away the butt of his cigarette. “Let’s go.”

Right on cue, Haney harped on the weapons to hop to it and the five of them left cover to run up on the airfield. Merriell lowered his hearing and sharpened his vision as he ran, tuning out the whizzing bullets and screaming bombs. He could see the Japanese in the distance, their carbines, snipers, and mortarmen dug into the concrete structures of the airfield. Three tanks, accompanied by squadrons of thirty men, crawled along the dry rocky ground towards their line.

Someone yelled for the mortars to take out the tanks and Merriell threw their gun down behind a pile of rubble, crumbled concrete, and gnarled rebar, dragging Burgin with him by his sleeve. “Gotta hit ‘em square on!”

Their regiment’s riflemen were screaming their damn heads off as the tanks started firing, cries for a corpsman filling the air.

“Deflection one four!” Burgin called, binoculars up, eyes trained on the airfield as Merriell parroted his instructions and adjusted the angle of their gun. Sledge had a round prepped well before he finished lining up their shot.

“Hangin’!”

Merriell hoped they were leading on the first tank. “Fire!”

“Drop one three!” Burgin corrected.

Merriell obeyed and they had another mortar off in seconds.

Burgin swore, pulling his binoculars away from his eyes and swiping a hand across his forehead to wipe away the sweat.

“For fuck’s sake De L’Eau, shoot that tank!” Haney barked from behind them as Burgin struggled to correct their aim. “Mortars quit fucking around!”

Merriell licked his dry lips, eyeing Burgin, waiting for the corrections. They hadn’t fought tanks before, especially not at this range, and Burgin looked pale as he stared out at the airfield. Merriell watched as Sledge reached out, laying his fingertips on the dirt-smeared skin of the corporal’s wrist.

“Hey,” Sledge prompted. Burgin’s terrified eyes snapped to Sledge’s face. “You got this, Burgie.”

Merriell could smell the spell— menthol fresh against the backdrop of dust, salt, and metal. With a curt nod, Burgin brought his binoculars back to his eyes.

“Deflection three one.”

“Christ, really?!” Merriell shivered at the thought of enemy tanks being that close to their line but did as he was told, reveling in the triumph in Burgin’s voice when he said to hold that angle after the third shot went off. They got through two ammo packs before Ack Ack hollered for the mortar squads to fall back amidst sprays of hot gravel and shrapnel. The tanks were too close for them to be effective anymore and they scrambled back into the trees with tank rounds nipping at their heels.

They weren’t more than a quarter mile from the front when Lieutenant “Hillbilly” Jones urged them to dig in for the night. Somehow, Merriell found himself in the same foxhole as Sledge in addition to Burgin and Oswalt. The riflemen and rocket launchers were finally pulled back just as the sun set and De L’Eau and a new rifleman, Leyden, slid unceremoniously into their foxhole.

“Damn it, De L’Eau, you’re collectin’ strays,” Merriell griped. Not only had he opened Sledge’s C-ration for him _again_ , but Oswalt had a huge blister that needed draining and he was too squeamish to do it himself. Before De L’Eau showed up, Merriell and Burgin were eyeing each other, silently willing the other man to help the poor idiot because Sledge couldn’t handle a Ka-Bar for shit. “You gon’ drag ‘em around then you take care of them.”

De L’Eau groaned and ran his fingers through his short dirty blond hair, knocking his helmet off and onto the ground. “I ain’t taking care of shit. I’m not taking first watch either. You stovepipe boys have been sitting here on your ass for hours.”

Merriell bristled at that and was about to snap back when Gunny Haney came up to their foxhole muttering about some damn dog. “Can you believe this? They think some dog is gonna smell the Japs before I do. Smoking lamps out now boys and we want two men awake at all times. Password is Liliputian.”

“Yes, sir.” They acknowledged tiredly. Haney gave them a curt nod and was about to move on when Leyden piped up.

“Sir, we got any more water?”

Haney chuckled, dark and cynical. Merriell’s heart dropped into his stomach. He’d tried his hardest to be careful with his water, but the day had been so hot and dry that he only had a few mouthfuls left in his canteen. “Sorry to say we don’t. Our supply routes are all fucked up thanks to the Jap Navy. If you got any salt pills left, take ‘em.”

As soon as Haney was out of earshot, Leyden sighed. “Well, fuck.”

De L’Eau clapped him on the shoulder sympathetically. “Well fucked indeed. Wake Leyden and me for last watch and no earlier or I swear, I will kill the first man I see.”

“Noted,” Burgin stubbed out his cigarette wistfully. “Oswalt and I will take first watch. Snafu and Sledge, I’m waking you both in four hours.”

“Yes sir,” Merriell drawled, snuggling down as best he could against the rocky ground with his head pillowed on his pack. Small as the foxhole was, with its steep, loose-graveled sides and narrow bottom, the four men leaned up against each other to sleep. The formation wasn’t unusual, but he couldn’t help but flinch when Sledge’s head tipped onto his shoulder. Magic sparked at the touch, crackling static and a force like trying to push together two negatively charged objects. Light and dark magic were like oil and water, they just didn’t mix. Merriell wondered how he was ever going to sleep with a thorn like Sledge in his side.

Sledge’s knuckles brushed against his, lightly. His voice was barely above a whisper and if it weren’t for the humid breath fanning over Merriell’s neck, he would have thought that Sledge hadn’t spoken at all. “Go to sleep, Shelton.”

Next thing Merriell knew, Burgin was waking him, murmuring his name and giving his arm a quick squeeze. Groggily, Merriell sat up and climbed up to peer over the edge of the foxhole, letting Burgin take his place. Sledge did the same, although he checked in on both Burgin and Oswalt before coming up. Merriell watched, his sleep addled brain putting the puzzle pieces together slowly. Just a touch, skin to skin, and the men fell asleep faster than he had ever seen in a warzone. Sledge had put them to sleep. Hell, Sledge had put him to sleep.

Quietly, he shifted over close to the redhead, shoulders bumping, and whispered into his ear. “Better save that type of magic for later. We ain’t even tired yet.”

Sledge didn’t respond right away, just glanced down at their sleeping comrades and back out in the direction of the airfield. “Maybe, but you weren’t gonna sleep without it.”

“Still, might be out here fighting for months. Foolish to wear yourself out on the first day.” Merriell grumbled, shaking his head. Nights in the country were bad regardless of who shared your foxhole and he was used to not sleeping. He preferred being on watch, alert for any movement that didn’t belong to one of their men. He and the dog were sure to sense a Jap before any mortal man.

“You do it.”

“Huh?” Merriell tore his eyes away from the maze of scraggly trees and pitted earth to glare at Sledge.

“You do it,” Sledge hissed petulantly. “You’ve been casting all day long. You don’t hide how your eyes glow and I know you’re not nearly as strong as I am.”

Merriell ground his teeth at the nerve of the other caster. He’d sensed the power difference between them on that very first day, but he didn’t need to rub it in. He growled low in his throat, about to tear Sledge a new one, when a man in a neighboring foxhole started whimpering. Like a wounded animal, he yelped, and the rest of the company froze except for Sledge. He hefted himself up to the lip of their foxhole, to look for the source.

Mad as he was, Merriell grabbed the back of his shirt and pulled him back down. “Want to get your fool head shot off?”

Someone— probably Hillbilly— leapt out of their hole and ran over to the whimpering man. “What the hell is going on?”

“He’s having a nightmare.”

The men on watch erupted into strained whispering.

“Shut that man up!”

“He’s gonna call the Japs right to our position.”

 “Stick him with morphine!”

Aggravated, Merriell wriggled up on his elbows to watch the commotion. A flare went off overhead and all the men awake cringed. In the light of the flare, Merriell could see five men surrounding one on the ground. The man on the ground thrashed and yelled, fighting the hands of his comrades as they tried to hush him. Next to him, Sledge got to his feet, obviously planning to run over and help. Merriell tackled him into the side of their foxhole.

“Let go! I can help!” He whined, bony elbows catching Merriell in the ribs as he tried to wriggle out of his grasp. Sledge was slightly larger than Merriell, but he didn’t know how to fight, couldn’t figure out how to extract himself from the tangle of their limbs. There was a heavy, metallic sounding thud and the screaming man fell quiet. Sledge ceased his struggling, his dark eyes huge in his pale face. Their faces were close, heaving breathes mingling hot together in the salty air, and Merriell was electrocuted by the disbelief and despair rolling off Sledge’s skin.

Merriell pushed off the other man, wiping his shaking hands on his dungarees, trying to scrub off the emotions that leaked from the light caster. Usually he didn’t feel much but anger, the loss of most sensitive emotions being a side effect of dark magic. The humanity of Sledge, his vulnerability, reminded Merriell of his mother, of her love settling on his skin like an afterthought. It felt too intimate, too sweet for a place like Peleliu.

“Better him than us.” Merriell said. He held Sledge’s terrified gaze and didn’t turn his attention back to the line until the redhead nodded in agreement.

Nothing else happened for the remainder of their watch. Merriell nudged De L’Eau and Leyden awake a little after 0400H. When he and Sledge settled down to sleep again, Sledge didn’t help him and Merriell dozed fitfully, the warm line of Sledge’s body sparking against his side like a live wire. 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Starting at 0900H their regiment crossed the airfield and Merriell nearly died.

The mortar exploded to his right, blasting him off his feet and whiting out his vision. He landed hard on his back, head smacking sharply on the uneven ground. He was dead, dead for sure, just a severed head rolling along now. He couldn’t feel his body, couldn’t see or hear or breathe. He thought of his mother, of his nameless bastard of a father, and then Sledge’s magic settled over him and he thought of how fucking mad he would be if Sledge was the last person he saw before he kicked it.

Slowly, he blinked the brightness out of his vision and the redhead came into focus. Sledge grabbed him by the arm—fear and relief crashing over him like a tidal wave—and hauled him onto his feet with a surprising amount of strength, shouting over and over again in his ear, “Get up, you’re fine!”

He dragged him forward, towards the rest of their squad who scurried in the cover of a low concrete wall, beckoning to them. Merriell bent to scoop up his helmet, getting up again just in time to see Oswalt catch a bullet in the face and crumple to the ground. Through the hand holding tight onto his arm, Merriell felt how the sight traumatized Sledge like a punch to the gut. Merriell gasped for air and wrenched out of Sledge’s grip. Together, they grabbed Oswalt’s body and pulled him into cover.

Before they crossed, Oswalt had taken the mortar so Merriell could give them some covering fire when needed. Merriell took the weapon back now, untangling the detachable sight from around the poor boy’s neck. He offered the sight to Sledge. They shared a long look, Sledge’s brown eyes open and pleading for something, but Merriell closed himself off, shaking his head. “Can’t dwell on it, Sledgehammer.”

The nickname brought to mind a tool of destruction which didn’t suit Sledge at all, but it jolted him into action all the same. He grabbed the sight from Merriell and looped it over his head. With a curt nod, they were on the move again.

The Marines pressed on; sweating, shooting, and slumping over dead in the unbearable heat until they had chased the Japanese off the airfield. Merriell couldn’t decide what was worse—the endless rain on Gloucester or the lack of water. Everyone in their regiment was out of salt pills. A man in Dog company found a well but the Japs had poisoned it with a goat’s head. Even though there was plenty of daylight left, Ack Ack held them at the concrete wreck of a hanger.

“Take it easy boys,” He insisted. “Hillbilly and I are going to see if we can’t rustle up some water.”

Merriell didn’t need to be told twice. He skittered up onto the second floor of the hanger and eased back in the shade of some crossbeams. From this position he could see out into the hills where the Japs were hiding and down onto the rest of his squad. Burgin and Sledge had found some busted up wicker chairs. De L’Eau and Leyden laid flat near their feet. They were too dehydrated to bother searching through the abandoned Japanese belongings like some of the other men. Merriell thought about it, but he didn’t see the point of collecting shit until the end. It was hard enough humping the gun up and down hills, he didn’t need a heavy bag of Jap souvenirs slowing him down too.

The adrenaline draining from his system left his movements slow and lazy. He smoked cigarette after cigarette, eyes heavy lidded and flicking between the hills and Burgin and Sledge. They were talking about something solemn, bent close to each other with serious expressions. If he cast a spell, he could eavesdrop on them, but Merriell was pretty sure he already knew what was eating Sledge up inside. He rested his head against the concrete and closed his eyes, shutting out the sunset.

When he was younger, his mother had explained the difference between light and dark magic to him. She ran her hands over his scalp, trimming his unruly curls with the same spell his grandma used to cause baldness. He must have asked her why the spell didn’t make him bald, but he doesn’t remember. Thinking of her sometimes was like trying to look at the bottom of a well, murky and distorted.

“It’s all about intent, _cher_.” Her voice…was it low and raspy or high and clear? Her fingers massaged gently along his temples, lulling him to sleep. “You get what you ask for—want to be mean, be spiteful, or angry then that’s what you get. Dark magic fuels the selfish, the hateful. Want to use light magic, then be kind, be loving. Ask to help, ask to serve and light will serve you.”

She always wanted him to be light. At one point he might have wanted that too, when he was still small, clinging to her skirts. But as he grew older, as he ran around with cousins his age like a pack of wild dogs in the streets, he lost the will for it. It was hard to be good and saying no to bad things, like pickpocketing and pulling pranks, made it hard to fit in. To the rest of his family, his mother was pathetic and weak for using magic sustained by her love of a dead man. He’d do anything to distance himself from that perception. Even as she was dying, pleading with him to make her proud, he only trembled and clung harder to the spite that powered the little fountain of lava in his chest.

Merriell woke to the ghost of a kiss on the top of his head. Night had fallen, and flares flashed around the open airfield, illuminating the US jeeps moving supplies up into the area. He glanced down at Sledge, who was stretched out on the floor now but still awake. One knee propped close to his chest, he fiddled with something pressed against his thigh. With a blink, Merriell’s night vision improved and he scrutinized Sledge in technicolor. He was writing on little scraps of paper, tucking them in between the pages of a pocket-sized bible. Snorting derisively, Merriell dropped the spell and turned his face away. Of course, Sledge was the type who loved to serve.

—

Taking the airfield turned out to be child’s play compared to the fresh hell that awaited them in the ridges. The winding routes and rough terrain made scouting near impossible. Every step they took into Japanese territory was peppered with shots from cleverly hidden machine guns and snipers. The variable elevation meant that mortars were of little use and any mortarmen with low rifle accuracy was reduced to a runner, fetching supplies and bringing the wounded back on stretchers. Trying to collect the wounded was its own brand of suicide mission. Merriell was decent with a rifle but on more than one occasion he found himself balancing on jagged rocks with a stretcher and Burgin or Sledge on the other end. Merriell insisted on walking backwards in those cases, eyes on the Jap line, waiting on the muzzle flash of a sniper’s gun so he could tell the other man to duck. They trusted him implicitly, especially Sledge who kept his eyes fixed to Merriell’s face as they carried their comrade back into their ranks, seemingly unfazed by having his back to the enemy.

As much as Merriell wanted to hate Sledge, he found that he couldn’t. Some unspoken agreement within the company made them foxhole buddies. The Japanese kept infiltrating their line at night and the solution was two men to a hole with one on watch at all times. The crumbly rock made it hard to dig, but they scooped out little ditches to hide in at night, tucked close together and dozing in four-hour shifts. Merriell felt like he was going crazy. Sledge’s fear and stress were impossible to ignore when they were pressed side to side at night. He experienced it in snatches, as Sledge had taken to knocking him out when it was his turn to sleep. Consequently, Merriell only felt the emotions in brief moments of transitioning consciousness and while Sledge was sleeping. They amplified his own anxiety, as if he wasn’t twitchy enough.

The day Ack Ack died, Merriell hit a breaking point. They all did. The entirety of K company cried like children as the corpsmen carried their captain’s body past on a stretcher. That night, as they settled into their foxhole, Merriell physically pushed Sledge away.

“I can’t handle it,” He snapped, shaking from the flood of grief that accompanied the brief brush of their shoulders. “Can’t you rein in your bleedin’ heart?”

Sledge stared at him with red rimmed eyes. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Every goddamn time you touch me, your fuckin’ feelings get in my head. Fuckin’ quit it!”

Sledge responded after a long, thoughtful pause. Chuckling quietly, he pressed the heel of his hands into his eye sockets. “Hell, you are sensitive, Shelton.” 

“I’m sensitive?” Merriell growled between gritted teeth. Sledge was making him feel stupid and hysterical, like he should already know what was going on between them. “You’re the one gettin’ bogged down with it.”

“Sorry,” Sledge apologized, placing one hand over Merriell’s, not touching just hovering. “I thought with you using dark magic that you wouldn’t feel it. Now I’m gonna touch you and you shouldn’t feel a thing.” When he pressed his palm down over the back of Merriell’s hand, he couldn’t help but flinch. However, like Sledge promised, he didn’t feel anything but the warm, slightly sweaty skin of his palm. No emotions or magic current at all, like touching a mortal. “That better?”

Merriell chewed his bottom lip. Sledge’s touch felt unnatural now, but he didn’t dare to say that he missed the sensation of his magic. “What the hell was happenin’ before?”

“I’m an empath,” Sledge removed his hand and Merriell felt cold without it. “I can sense people’s feelings and, if they’re susceptible to it, project feelings onto them. With compatible casters, I can lend my magic to boost their own. I’m a support class wizard, or so my brother calls me.”

“I noticed. I’ve seen how you calm the men. I’ve felt your magic. But what’s with your emotions bleedin’ all over the place.”

Sledge exhaled heavily, rubbing his hands over his face and fisting them in his hair. “Might be lending you too much. I don’t know. Haven’t supported a dark caster until you. Anyways, I put a barrier up between us. You won’t be bombarded with my emotions, but I’m not strong enough to hold that and boost you. I already have one up for the rest of the men and two is pushing it.”

“You mean to tell me that if you touch someone without a barrier, you project your real emotions.”

“Basically. Can’t calm anybody down if they feel how badly I’m shitting myself. It blocks their emotions out too though. Since you’re dark I can’t feel yours at all, with or without a barrier. Guess that’s why I thought I didn’t need one.” Sledge laughed tiredly. Suddenly he looked weighed down. “Can you take first watch?”

Merriell observed Sledge carefully, had from the very beginning. It all made sense now, the odd blank expression, how trusting he was of him. Merriell was the only one that Sledge didn’t have to hide from. “Does it take a lot to keep it up?”

The redhead sounded weary, resigned. “It’s neutral magic, Snafu. It runs loose if I let it. Takes work to lock it away.”

“Well then don’t,” Merriell said after a beat, pulling one of Sledge’s hands away from his head. He gripped it tightly, glad that the dim twilight hid the blush blooming suddenly across his cheeks. His chest felt tight, the coil of magic there expanding like a balloon, vibrating almost painfully. Something was definitely wrong with him. He was going Asiatic. “Take the barrier down. I’ll deal.”

Sledge shook his head, tried to yank his hand away. Merriell held on doggedly. “I know how it feels. You’re not used to it, it’ll drive you crazy.”

“Sledgehammer,” Merriell put on his best maniacal grin. He felt unhinged, felt scared and the magic humming through his veins felt different. It buzzed instead of bubbling under his skin. “I’m already crazy. ‘Sides, we both know I need a boost from time to time.”

Sledge searched his face for a minute, but Merriell didn’t give an inch. Then he closed his eyes. He opened them again and they were green. “If we do this, it might get worse. I’m—”

He stopped then, strangled by whatever emotion was spilling over. The force of it, rushing back into Merriell all at once, was unlike anything he’d ever felt. He couldn’t decide if it hurt, being filled up by Sledge—Eugene, his mind corrected—all at once, like a ship sinking. He drowned in the cool depths of him, the grief, fear, and pain pressing into him and beneath it all a hidden treasure of tenderness, of hope. His mother ran her spidery hands over his cheek, begging him to see the beauty in such a cruel world.

“Snafu, you alright?” He awoke flat on his back, Eugene cradling his head gently in his hands. He must have passed out. Anxiety pattered over his skin like rain. “Say something.”

“Somethin’,” He mumbled, head still filled with water, tongue heavy in his mouth.

“Christ, I thought I turned you into a vegetable,” Eugene let out a shuddering breath, dropping his head against Merriell’s shoulder. “You know, dark magic doesn’t suit you.”  
            Merriell rolled his head to look at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

For a brief moment, their noses were nearly touching. They shared the same breath. Then Eugene pulled back, turning his attention to the world outside their foxhole. “Just think you’d be stronger if you used light magic. Now get some rest, I’ll wake you in four.”

With Eugene’s fingers tangled in his once more, Merriell fell into a dreamless sleep. 

In the gray morning light, Merriell realized fully what he had done. Sipping at a canteen of oily water, he watched Eugene marking up his little bible. The sight used to make his blood boil, thinking about such a futile, mortal imaginary friend. Now, there was nothing, no rage or bubbling hot magic raring to be mean. He felt calm, his magic still inside, unfettered but tranquil like the ocean on a windless day. In giving himself over, in helping Eugene, he had given up dark magic.

Maybe this was what his mother intended, maybe she knew that this would happen. By sending her only son off to fight in some mortal war, she had stripped him of the darkness, like she always wanted. He never had the foresight she did, couldn’t ever understand why she insisted he wear a blue shirt on some days and a yellow shirt on others, and he certainly had not seen this coming. How could he? To her, war was a romantic tragedy, a loss of love so great it left her breathless. She did not see how war tore men apart, ripping into them with jagged metal teeth, crunching at their bones, gobs of blood and brains flying from its maw. In his first taste of it, Merriell thought that the only thing keeping a man alive in this war was hate so black and bitter, focused like a single blazing eye on the Empire of the Rising Sun. Now, crouched in the craggy hills, being shot at like fish in a barrel, he sensed the life his comrades gave him. Sacrifices kept a man alive in wartime; the sacrifice he made drove the darkness out.

Merriell set his canteen down and pulled out a cigarette, curious. He hadn’t used neutral magic since he was maybe ten years old. By nature, neutral magic was wild, taking great energy to manage alone. All casters started out with it, but they called upon the light or dark to channel it before too long. The Sheltons especially started their spawn out young on spiteful little spells, aiming to rein them in as soon as they could. Hiding his hands from the rest of the company, he conjured a flame, jerking back a little when it flared up higher than he expected.

“Watch your eyebrows.”

Merriell snapped his head up to glare at Eugene. The redhead smiled at him, fond and a little smug, but he didn’t say ‘I told you so’.

They brushed up against each other later in the day, as they carried cases of rifle ammo up to the front of the line, and Merriell noticed that the touch hurt less. Either Eugene’s grief had diminished or Merriell’s desertion of dark magic made him less sensitive to the projected emotions. Whatever the cause, a comradery bloomed between them, different from Merriell’s relationships with the other men of their company. In what way, well, he couldn’t put his finger on it.

“When you first showed up, I thought you had healin’ magic.” He remarked to Eugene a week after Ack Ack died. They were waiting on another supply run, passing a cigarette back and forth.

“That so,” Eugene smirked around the smoke. “What gave you that idea?”

Merriell shrugged, scratched at the mud caked into the stubble on his chin. “Just things Burgin said. Curin’ my seasickness.”

Eugene laughed heartily at that, head thrown back, exposing the pale, dirt-flecked expanse of his neck. Merriell’s heart pounded unacceptably at the sight, a response reserved for beautiful women, not an exhausted, filthy soldier. “I didn’t cure anything, I just gave you a nudge.”

“Nudge?”

Eugene handed the cigarette back and Merriell took it gratefully. “Yeah, a nudge. You got magic that changes your perception of things. So, I suggested you perceive that you weren’t on a boat anymore.” Eugene chucked him on the shoulder playfully. A glimmer of cheerful feelings came with it, smugness mostly because the redhead was a self-righteous bastard, but amusement too. The emotions raced up Merriell’s spine like the fizz from a soda.

“Bullshit,” He grunted back, taking a drag to hide his grin. “Next you’ll be sayin’ that you get me to sleep by hintin’ that I’m tired.”

“My magic is deceptively simple, Snafu. You though, you could do things if you set your mind to it. Especially now that dark magic isn’t weighing you down.”

Their cigarette burned down to the butt. Merriell dropped it to the ground, grinding it with the heel of his boot. He desperately wanted to light another, but his pack had to last him another week. Ration resupplies were getting fewer and far between.  “You’re too kind, Sledgehammer.”

“I mean it,” Eugene clapped him on the back, hand lingering on his shoulder blade, warm and as jovial as a man could be in a battlefield. “I bet you could cast on other people. You just gotta try. I can help you, if you want.”

Merriell scowled. Using magic on animals was one thing but using it on people required great power and concentration, something he was sure he didn’t have. But Eugene’s liveliness, his sincerity, made Merriell want to try. Eugene cast spells on others all the time, if anyone could teach him it would be him. “I’ll think about it.”

The supply runners showed up then, pushing wheelbarrows filled with barrels of water or boxes of ammunition up the steep, meandering trail. The paths narrowed closer to the front lines, and supplies had to be carried in on foot. To get water, Merriell and Eugene needed to fill canteens and carry them back in their packs. They helped unload the barrels, cracking one open to start the arduous but all-important task. Oil floated in a thick film on the surface of the water.

“Again?” Eugene tsked. “Our men are gonna get sick off of this. When is the Navy gonna learn to scrub their drums?”

“They claim they’re short on everything and this is the best they could do.” The corporal leading the detail apologized, gesturing to his squad to begin carrying the ammunitions up. He joined them at the barrel, picking up an empty canteen and dunking it in. “There’s a silver lining though, I hear the Japs are gonna surrender the island soon.”

“Don’t believe everything you hear,” Merriell snorted, rolling his eyes.

Always the nice one, Eugene chided him. “Don’t be so dismissive. We’ve been at this for a couple months now. They gotta be just as tired as us and we’re pushing forwards slowly but surely.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Merriell replied. “Say sir, you got any spare smokes?”

“Even if I did, I wouldn’t share them with you.” The corporal sneered, clearly put out by Merriell’s dismissal of his grand news. Just because he didn’t use dark magic anymore didn’t mean he was going to stop being testy.

He said as much to Eugene on their hike back to the company. Eugene just sighed in response. “Wouldn’t kill you to be just a little nicer.”

“Can’t say shit like that in a warzone, Sledgehammer.” Merriell wiped sweat from his face idly, listening to the pop of guns increase in volume as they advanced. The body count seemed to mount exponentially with every push into the heavily fortified ridges and caves of Peleliu. Just the other day, they had watched in horror as a clever sniper tore through eight Able company men as they tried to retrieve their wounded.

“Suppose I can’t.” Eugene agreed with a grunt, clambering up the rough stones ahead of them. The rock of the ridges was fragmented and sharp; all the men had chronically bloody palms from climbing through the steep, narrow pathways. Eugene left dark, glistening handprints in his wake. “The way the Japs are set up in these hills, we might as well take a number.”

Merriell snickered, but Eugene was right. The Japanese forces scurried about in the mountain caves like rats, pouring fire down on the marines from their coral hideouts. The instant the 5th Marines had taken the 7th regiment’s place on Bloody Nose Ridge, men started dropping like flies. First Leyden, flesh burned away from his legs by a grenade, then Hillbilly, exploded and shot, and poor Ack Ack, knocked out swiftly by a sniper’s bullet. Numerous other men were injured or killed on the daily. It wore a man down, watching the death and destruction, but it happened so often they became numb to it. Even Eugene, with the bleeding heart that Merriell liked to tease him so much about, barely blinked at the sight of a man dropping to the ground.

“Has it really been two months since we landed?” Merriell hadn’t kept track of the days since before Gloucester, felt it was pointless when any day could be your last, but he knew Eugene wrote notes in his little pocket bible during downtime. He was meticulous like that; even managed to keep up shaving while all other men had abandoned it. Although his inability to grow in anything other than a few whiskers probably drove his obsession with staying clean shaven.

“Let’s see, D-day was September 15th. We sat on the airfield for a week, captured that little island to the north within six days, so that’s September 28th. For five days after that, we ran supplies to the 7th regiment. We relieved them two weeks after that…And what, we been on this ridge almost two weeks? So not a full two months, but a month and half maybe. I’d have to check my notes.”

Merriell laughed at the ease with which Eugene rattled off his calculation of their time on Peleliu. “You sure you need to be writin’ that shit down? Sounds like you got it all stored in that big brain of yours just fine.”

Eugene slipped, tipping backwards, the jagged stone he’d been using as a handhold crumbling under his weight. Merriell, being just behind him, caught him before he could fall far, hand latching onto one of the weathered straps of his pack. The friction of the fabric stung his lacerated palm and his arm quaked from the strain, but he gritted his teeth through the pain, keeping Eugene up until he found his footing again. “Alright?”

“Yeah, thanks,” Eugene stammered, face flushed red and expression spooked as he looked up at Merriell. Dawson from Easy company had died from a similar fall two days ago, smashing his head open on the unforgiving rocks. They scrambled the rest of the way back to their company wordlessly, focused on the treacherous path ahead of them. Neither acknowledged the weight of the silence between them, but Merriell hoped that Eugene could sense how he would miss him if he died.


	3. Chapter 3

The 5th Marines did not see the end of Peleliu. Relieved by the 81st Infantry, they were shipped back to Pavuvu to lick their wounds. Boots waited for them on the island, well-fed and clean, ready to revitalize their severely depleted ranks. On Peleliu, Merriell hadn’t noticed any changes the war was making to Eugene, but in the face of fresh men and pretty young nurses handing out lemonade, he saw that Eugene wasn’t completely light anymore. He watched anger spiraling up in him like thunderclouds, eyes narrowed and dark.

“What the hell are they doing here?” Eugene muttered lowly. The hairs on the back of Merriell’s neck stood up at the dangerous growl in his voice, the smell of ozone zinging the air.

Oblivious, De L’Eau replied cheerfully. “It’s a welcoming committee! Raises morale to have a gorgeous woman waiting on you hand and foot.”

Eugene scoffed. “No woman can make me forget what I’ve seen.”

Abruptly, he turned in the direction of their tents, shoving his way past the line of waiting men. Merriell made to go after him, but Burgin held him back. “Best let him go, Snafu. Remember how salty we all were after Gloucester?”

Merriell conceded with a tiny nod. The nurses with the lemonade were the Hollywood picture of American girls; soft and sweet in their crisp white uniforms, glossy hair curled perfectly around their round, red-cheeked faces. Once upon a time, he would have flirted with them, thrown out a crude pick up line and charming grin, but Eugene’s absence left a void at his side. The willow wood ring around his finger tingled and he rubbed at it. Quickly, he grabbed a paper cup of lemonade, thanked the girls shortly, and walked to K/3/5’s section of the camp.

He found Eugene in an empty tent, sat bare-chested on a cot, picking his socks away from the open sores on his feet. The redhead looked up sharply as he entered. Merriell expected him to relax when he saw him, like he did back in country whenever he reentered his line of sight, but Merriell’s appearance seemed to make him angrier. He rolled his eyes, grabbed his shaving kit and a bar of soap and pushed past Merriell, mumbling something about getting clean. It seemed like Burgin was right, Eugene needed space. Deep down, Merriell knew it was probably for the best. Eugene was a bookish type, so he probably valued being alone with his own thoughts, but the idea of leaving him unsupervised brought anxiety bubbling to his chest.

His father’s willow wood ring positively burned. He gritted his teeth, fiddling with it but not taking it off, secretly wanting it to leave a brand upon his skin. His hands were littered with thick cuts anyways from climbing over jagged stony coral. He set his things down on the bunk next to Eugene’s and started shrugging off his utilities. They were worn through with holes, threadbare and stained from salt and blood. His boots and socks suffered the same, reeking of the pus that oozed from his festering blisters.

Burgin and De L’Eau joined him shortly. De L’Eau teased Burgin about the nurses. “Think your Aussie girl’s gonna be mad when I tell her about your wandering eye?”

Burgin was flushed beet red, nearly purple. “It’s only funny the first time, Jay. I just said, ‘thank you’, and Florence ain’t my girl yet.”

“But you’re gonna ask, right? Write her a nice letter, declaring your everlasting love.” De L’Eau crooned, slinging an arm around him.

Burgin shoved him away, but a grin broke out on his face. “Can it and wash up. You stink to high heaven.”

Cackling, De L’Eau dug through his pack for his toiletries, sprinkling items around his cot. “Ask nicely and she might marry you.”

De L’Eau’s comment dragged Merriell’s attention away from cataloging the scrapes and sores along his scrawny legs. “Might be best to ask for her hand when the war’s truly over. Ain’t no man safe out here in the Pacific.”

His companions visibly deflated. De L’Eau whined. “C’mon Snafu, what’s with you and Sledgehammer staying all mopey? Doesn’t hurt to pretend that we’re safe for now. Besides, men fight harder when they’ve got hope.”

“Well what about Florence? Death doesn’t hurt _you_ , it hurts the ones you leave behind. How you think she’d feel about bein’ widowed before she was even married? Seems heartless to give her hope and then snatch it away. Just be thankful you didn’t knock her up before leavin’.” The words streamed out before Merriell could stop them, sounding low and tight with sadness. Immediately, he wanted to clap a hand over his mouth. The men didn’t need to know how familiar the situation was to him.

“God,” De L’Eau grabbed his kit and stomped out of the tent. He shouted back over his shoulder. “You are so depressing!”

Burgin stared at Merriell quizzically. “Y’ alright? Usually you’re lewd and less…existential.”

Merriell shrugged, avoiding Burgin’s eyes. Everything was not alright. He wasn’t used to feeling so keenly. The longer the war dragged on, the more he sympathized with his poor mother. How long did she wait for him? When did she know that he wasn’t coming back? Was Eugene coming back?

“You know, you’ve been different since Sledge got here. It’s like you and him are on the same wavelength or something. Goodness knows why since you couldn’t have less in common,” Burgin rolled his eyes, chuckling. “Maybe instead of letting him drag you down, you can cheer him up.”

Merriell’s heart leapt into his throat. He waved away Burgin’s suggestion, exuding a nonchalance he definitely didn’t feel. “I ain’t his keeper.”

“We’re Marines, Shelton. We’re every man’s keeper. Now come and wash up.”

Merriell trailed Burgin to the beach begrudgingly. Men from all companies bathed in the waves, rinsing the dust of Peleliu from their bodies with the briny water. Merriell gasped as the ocean swirled into the lacerations littering his skin. The salt stung his wounds, but he rubbed it in with a bar of soap in hand, gingerly wiping away all physical traces of that horrible little island.

—

The flesh of men could heal and, within weeks, the cuts on their hands were little more than thin silver scars, the sores on their feet scabbed over from finally being dry and clean. The mind, on the other hand, proved to be a fickle thing. Combat fatigue still lingered for some, in the form of nightmares, wild tempers, and the odd thousand-yard stare. Eugene suffered from it. He wandered away from the camp a lot, missing details but never drills. When he was there, he lay in the tent, smoking his pipe, staring blankly at the ceiling. None of that behavior was unusual, all the men did it, especially Merriell. He snuck away often to practice spells, coaxing his now neutral magic into following his orders. No, what struck Merriell as truly bizarre, was that Eugene avoided touching people. At chow, he sat at the end of the bench, keeping a careful distance between himself and his nearest neighbor. If you passed something to him, he paused before taking it, tactically evading any possible brush of hands. He dodged pats on the back, refused to walk through crowded areas, and wouldn’t play contact sports during downtime.

Merriell tried to ignore it, tried to give Eugene space, but sometime close to Christmas he lost his patience. Alone in their tent, smoking and laying in their respective cots, Merriell watched Eugene, twiddled his willow wood ring, and asked. “Remember you said you could teach me to cast on others?”

Quiet stretched out like taffy between them, broken only by the clack of Eugene’s teeth on his pipe. Merriell was thinking about repeating himself when Eugene heaved a resigned sigh. “I did, didn’t I?”

“You did.” Merriell dared to smile when Eugene looked at him. Eugene’s brown eyes were a shade darker than he remembered, more hard-packed winter earth than spring fields, and creased around the edges from perpetual sleep-deprivation.

“I don’t think I can make good on that promise,” Eugene said, tapping his pipe on the edge of his cot to shake out the old tobacco. “Sorry, Shelton.”

Merriell sat up. He expected Eugene to say as much. He suspected that the redhead avoided people so that he didn’t have to control his magic. “You gon’ tell me why?”

“You going to make me?” Eugene retorted, closing his eyes. He looked ill—lazing on his cot, sunburnt limbs hanging spidery off the sides, thin, pale chest rising up and down in deep, slow breathes, and shimmering with clammy sweat.

Merriell knew that sickness, had seen it countless times in his family, the calm before the storm that was being claimed. He wondered if Eugene knew and, if he didn’t, would he panic if Merriell told him he was turning dark? He didn’t press the issue. It seemed likely that Eugene was trying to postpone the claiming by not using magic at all.

“I’m goin’ for a swim.” Merriell announced, standing up and stretching. His spine popped pleasantly as he arched his back and rolled his shoulders. He stared at Eugene, silently begging him to come with.

“Then go swim.” Eugene sighed again, slinging an arm over his eyes, seeming intent on ignoring him. Merriell scowled at the easy dismissal and left.

Outside, he squinted against the bright sunlight, relishing in the warm and breezy weather. Compared to the dry, scorching days on Peleliu, Pavuvu remained 80°F and humid. Rain often fell briefly in the morning and late at night, but mid-day stayed sunny. Most of the vets lounged in their tents to escape the noon sun, foisting work off on the boots. As Merriell walked to the beach, he saw them scurrying around the garrison, looking sweaty and nervous. Their weak faces and bodies, skin beginning to freckle and burn under the tropical sun, made him want to be mean.

The view of the ocean calmed him. It was cliché that Merriell was named after the sea and found peace in it. He should hate the Pacific, for all that he had suffered near it, but his mood lifted as he waded into the waves. The water was too warm to be refreshing, sluicing over his skin like bathwater. It felt like his magic, curious and rippling. Dipping his head under to slick his curls back, Merriell set out in a languid front crawl for the coral reefs a couple hundred yards from shore. Growing up in the bayou, immersed in the sticky water of the marshes, made him an excellent swimmer and Merriell came out to the reefs often to practice spells. In addition to being quite far from shore, the shoreline drop off deterred many from swimming out to them. After being jammed up against so many men for so long, true isolation was a luxury, and when Merriell reached the reef he floated, belly up, reveling in the solitude.

Out here there was nothing but fish, turtles, and some funny looking sea creatures whose names he couldn’t remember or didn’t know. Sharks prowled around the reefs too. Seeing them gave him a thrill, the same adrenaline he got from finding alligators back in Louisiana. Except this time, it was him in the water instead of a more capable uncle, skating his fingers over their sandpapery hide when they came close to investigate. With a touch he rendered them docile or sent them away with the equivalent of ‘nothing to see here’ projected into their little shark brains.

His favorite creature was a plush, wriggling, eight-limbed thing no bigger than his hand. It was slimy, squishy, and colorful, egg-yolk yellow and patterned with rings bluer than any sea or sky. He found it by accident one day, trying to lure over a faraway pod of dolphins. It was the farthest he had ever tried to stretch the spell and it snapped, calling all ocean dwelling animals within a 30-foot radius straight to him. A harrowing experience, to say the least, but the blue-ringed, eight-legged blob that squeezed out of an impossibly narrow crack in the coral made the mistake worth it. Of all the sea creatures he had met, it was the most docile and perhaps the most intelligent. The majority came when he summoned then ignored him, but blue-ring blob was inquisitive, clinging to him and prodding his skin tenderly with its sucker-covered limbs. He wished he could talk to it, ask what it thought of him, learn its name. He called it Blobby.

Merriell was playing with Blobby, drifting on his back, letting the creature squirm over his stomach when he heard distant splashing. Shifting to tread water, he spun in a slow circle, scanning the horizon for the source of the noise. Blobby, suctioned to the skin of his chest, crawled slowly up towards his shoulder. From the direction of the shore, Merriell saw rhythmic splashing, consistent with a human swimming. “Oh hell, someone thinks I drowned.”

He swam towards them, intending to head them off before they got too far from shore. Knowing his luck, some stupid boot was swimming out, thinking that being a Marine instantly made him capable of a water rescue. In the slightly cooler water of the drop off, he caught sight of them—a skinny, redheaded man—and stopped to rub the water from his eyelashes. He called out to him. “Eugene?”

Hearing his name, the redhead paused, still several feet away and raised a hand. Merriell treaded water leisurely, the anxiety of having to talk to some green private ebbing away. Excitement took its place along with a fierce ripple of satisfaction that he had managed to get Eugene to do something with him. Recalling Burgin’s words about cheering Eugene up, he pried Blobby from his shoulder gently. If he remembered correctly, Eugene had a dog back in Alabama, so maybe he’d like Merriell’s new pet.

As soon as Eugene got close enough for them to see each other properly despite the waves, he held Blobby out on his hand. “Look what I found!”

Panting from the long swim, pink-skinned from the salt and sun, Eugene pushed his coppery hair out of his eyes. When he caught sight of Blobby, he lurched back, eyes practically bugging out of his head. “Snaf, the fuck?! Put it down!”

“What? No.” Shocked by Eugene’s outburst, Merriell curled the little creature towards his chest protectively. He noted a frisson of fear racing through Blobby’s body and he quelled it with gentle strokes of his pointer finger. “Quit hollerin’, you’re scaring it.”

“That’s a blue ringed octopus, Snafu,” Eugene warned, voice high and frightened. “One bite will surely kill you. Put it down.”

“You don’t know that. You’re smart, I’ll give you that, but you ain’t the expert on everythin’,” Merriell pouted. “’Sides, it won’t bite, it’s under a spell.”

Eugene’s jaw remained tight with fear. He spoke slowly, words carefully enunciated like he was talking someone down from an Asiatic episode. “I read, Snafu. One bite from that thing will paralyze you and you will drown. Now I don’t care if you’ve hypnotized it or what. Put. It. Down.”

Merriell narrowed his eyes at Eugene’s tone. He was talking to him like he was a child. Tired of treading water, he placed Blobby back on his shoulder, waiting for the soft sucking pressure on his skin that let him know the creature was secure, and struck out in a strong front crawl for the nearest rocky shelf. He didn’t have to look back to know that Eugene followed him, albeit, he thought Eugene would be a much slower swimmer. The shelf curved out sneakily from the shore into the drop off, some errant lava flow creating a spot shallow enough to stand and keep one’s head above water. Worn down by the ocean waves, it felt smooth under Merriell’s toes and he almost felt his anger dissipate. But then Eugene stumbled onto the shelf, spluttering and shocked, still insisting that he let go of the octopus in between gasps for air, and Merriell was spitting mad again.

“Don’t act like you know better than me,” Merriell snapped hotly, keeping his voice level so he didn’t disturb Blobby.

“Half the time I do know better than you! Your name is Snafu for fuck’s sake!” Eugene retorted hysterically, arms flying up, flinging water droplets everywhere. 

Merriell growled in frustration. “I cast on animals all the time. I got it under control.”

“What part of ‘it can kill you’ do you not understand?” Eugene pleaded, a desperate edge that Merriell had never heard before creeping into his voice.

“Every man on this island can kill, that why you keepin’ everyone at arm’s length?” He leapt on Eugene’s vulnerability, guilt roiling in his gut when Eugene winced as though he’d been struck. “This octopus, or whatever, ain’t no more dangerous than I am.” Merriell eased Blobby off the crook of his neck and cupped it in his hands, its rubbery body sliding around his pruning fingertips. “I’ve killed. You afraid of me?”

Eugene met his question with an icy glare. Only his head and neck were above water, but Merriell could guess that Eugene’s hands were set on his hips in a disapproving manner. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“So you are afraid.”

“I never said—”

“I’m afraid of you,” Merriell countered before Eugene could get defensive. “I’ve seen what you’ve had to do, Eugene, but I trust you.”

For once in his life Merriell must have said the right thing because Eugene faltered, the fight leaving him. He frowned, opened his mouth to say something then shut it. He scrubbed his hands over his face. One hand hiding his eyes, he mumbled, “I trust you too.”

“Then hold it,” Merriell demanded, offering the blue ringed octopus to Eugene again. “You know I won’t let anythin’ hurt you. I’ve been messin’ with it, hours at a time, for weeks and its always really relaxed. I promise it won’t bite you.”

Eugene’s face paled and Merriell was sure he was going to refuse and swim back to shore. Instead, he exhaled shakily and put his hands out, palms up. Cautiously, Merriell closed the distance between them and shuffled Blobby onto Eugene’s hands. To his credit, the redhead didn’t flinch, but his mouth twisted with disgust, likely due to the slimy feel of the octopus’ skin.

“See, it’s nice,” Merriell wheedled. “Name’s Blobby.”

“You named it?” Eugene chuckled nervously, frozen in place as the creature tapped its long, tapered limbs along his wrists.

Merriell shrugged and scratched the back of his head. He hated looking stupid, but he hated Eugene’s discomfort even more. “Had to call it somethin’. Couldn’t remember the word octopus.”

“Had to call it something,” Eugene parroted, shaking his head and laughing again. This time it sounded more genuine. He tilted his head then and the way the light bounced off the waves made his irises almost green. His voice softened, becoming sweet and boyish. “Like how you’re calling me ‘Eugene’?”

Desire and embarrassment burst like a flare in Merriell’s chest at Eugene’s quiet comment. The tone he used had a gentle, teasing quality that reminded Merriell of trying to sweet talk good girls into fooling around in the woods after curfew. He turned so Eugene couldn’t see him flush and scoffed. “I don’t call you that.”

“It’s alright, I…I think I need you to,” Eugene sounded very young now, on the verge of tears. Merriell wanted to look at him, but his stomach wouldn’t stop flipping at the thought of Eugene _needing_ him and he settled for watching Blobby make its way patiently up Eugene’s left arm. “I need to cope with this somehow. Maybe, it’ll be easier if Eugene is here and Sledgehammer is out there, doing those…things.”

Eugene lowered his arm as his words trailed off, submerging the octopus, prompting it to let go and drift towards Merriell again. He sent it away and they both watched it swim back to the reef, a tiny green shape just under the surface. Eugene cleared his throat. “Snafu, what’s your real name?”

“Merriell.”

“Oh,” Eugene blinked, surprise apparent on his face.

 “I know it’s a girl’s name.” A lifetime’s worth of teasing from his cousins had hardened him against humiliation over the name ‘Merriell’ ages ago. “Ma had the foresight. Was convinced the name was good luck.”

“I wasn’t thinking that. It’s a good name. Suits you.” Eugene insisted politely. Merriell snorted mockingly but was secretly pleased. The Southern gentleman act could mean that Eugene was feeling more like himself again.

Silence settled between them. The sun dipped towards the horizon and the wind was picking up, bringing the scent of rain with it. Barely noticeable amidst the overpowering brine of the sea, but Merriell’s keen nose caught the revitalizing whiff of far off freshwater. He opened his mouth, about to suggest that they head back when Eugene spoke.

“Merriell, I’m turning dark.”

He sounded small and terrified, and when Merriell closed his eyes he could imagine they were back in their foxhole, counting the seconds between shellings. “I know.”

Eugene’s words burst forth in a rush, like water blowing through a levy. “I don’t think I can stop it. I’ve been trying, but it’s hard to forgive them. They act like war is normal, like it’s no big thing. Kill some man today, drink some lemonade on your front porch tomorrow. There’s no thought to it, no atonement.”

“Eugene, our kind fight too. We kill too.” Merriell mediated, staring out to sea. There was something private about a man breaking down and he didn’t know if Eugene would appreciate being watched.

“Not like this.” Eugene asserted, voice heated. “We don’t aim to kill, and we certainly don’t send our women over to the troops like some sick sort of reward.”

“Well that’s ‘cause our women are the troops. They start the wars and they finish ‘em,” Merriell responded dryly. “So what, you’re sorry for killin’ Japs?”

“God no!” Eugene erupted, all his agony and rage pouring out. “I’ll fucking hate them until the day I die and that’s the problem. Remember that night I almost let one into our foxhole? I’d never killed a man that close before. I was so surprised, when I stabbed him I had my barrier down and I felt just blind, animalistic fury. I thought it was his at first, and maybe it was, but when his life flickered out it remained. No matter what I do it stays. Doesn’t matter how hard I pray for forgiveness; I can’t wash away the blood, the hate. And the worst part is that I don’t think I want it to go away. I don’t think I can survive without it.”

Merriell didn’t know what to say in the face of Eugene’s confession. He placed a hand on Eugene’s arm, mutely offering comfort, taking in the pain and madness boiling under the skin. He hadn’t felt Eugene’s magic since Peleliu and, where once it lapped soothingly like the current against the banks of a river, it now cracked like lightning, raw and wrathful.

Eugene started swimming to shore without a word. Merriell followed, unsettled, unsure if he should have done something more than listen. The nagging feeling heightened as he tailed Eugene through the shallows, his mother’s voice in his ear, chastising him for forgetting something. On the beach, pulling his pants over his scrawny hips, the memory shot through him like an arrow from a bow. _Be kind, be loving_. Merriell grabbed Eugene’s arm to get his attention.

“What?” Eugene groaned, grumpy and worn out. The saltwater drying in his hair caused it to stick up in all directions.

“Before, how did you choose light magic?”

Eugene’s lips stretched into a thin, flat line. He bent down to pick his shirt up out of the sand, carelessly shaking his bible out of the breast pocket. “Habit, I think. My mother’s mortal and took us to church ‘bout three times a week. When I was really young, the thought of going to hell scared me. As I got older, I got real attached to the New Testament. It’s all about forgiveness. Now I…I don’t know.”

“What emotion did you use to cast?” Merriell prompted, letting go of Eugene’s arm so he could dig around in his own pockets for a cigarette.

Eugene shook his head. “The spells I use ain’t like yours—”

Merriell dismissed Eugene’s excuse tersely. “Humor me.”

“I don’t know,” He shrugged, thumb flipping idly through the tattered pages of his bible. “Probably wanted to help or shield myself from the world. I wasn’t perfectly light.”

“Aha,” Merriell triumphantly held up his pack of cigarettes. He took two out, giving one to Eugene who held out his hand expectantly. _Be loving_. Conjuring a flame in his palm, he let Eugene light his first before lighting his own. After a few blissful puffs, lungs tingling pleasurably, he asked, “What about love?”

Eugene coughed around his cigarette. “Excuse me?”

“Love. Ain’t Jesus about loving thy neighbor and shit?”

“Yes, maybe.” Suddenly, Eugene’s ears became very red and he stared blankly at Merriell’s cigarette. He stammered, free handing sliding around the back of his neck. “Ain’t heard of many casters who use it.”

Merriell’s heart fluttered at Eugene’s bashful reaction. The wooden ring pulsed with heat and he twisted it to relieve the burn, watching Eugene’s eyes track the movement of his hands. “Ma used love.”

Eugene quirked an eyebrow at that. “Your mother was a light caster?”

“Hard to believe, I know,” Merriell smirked. He took a long drag from his cigarette to steady his nerves. “Makes me wonder if love would make me light.”

Their eyes met, each seeking something that Merriell wasn’t ready to name yet. It lingered in the back of his mouth, tasting like ash and salt. He swallowed it down, certain that it spilled out his eyes anyways, as green as Eugene was gold, as hopeful as Eugene was hopeless.

Eugene licked his lips, squeezed his eyes shut, and tipped his face up to the blue sky to hide the sadness and regret as if Merriell hadn’t already seen it. “Pretty sure that love isn’t enough for me.”

“Yeah,” Merriell felt hollow, like he’d bared himself and Eugene had ripped his insides out through his soft underbelly. Except he hadn’t admitted anything, not to Eugene, not even to himself. He worried his cigarette between his teeth, tobacco flaking out and onto his tongue. “See you at chow.”

—

Merriell spent the hours until nightfall smoking and walking along the beach alone, skirting the surf, feet sinking into the wet sand. When he returned to the tent, Eugene was stretched out on his cot, ghostly pale, unconscious, and shivering, surrounded by a corpsman, Burgin, and a fresh-looking Bill Leyden.

“Where you been? Why’d you miss chow?” Burgin questioned anxiously.

“Out.” Merriell sprawled onto his cot, half-smoked cigarette dangling from his mouth, and fished around under his pillow for his beat up lighter. He used it around the men to keep up appearances.

Burgin shared a despairing look with the corpsman, who sighed and jerked his thumb at Eugene. “Hey, you know if he takes his Atabrine?”

“No.”

“No, he doesn’t take them or no, you don’t know?” Burgin pressed, worried and agitated. “And you better not give me a one-word answer! This is serious, Snaf, he could have malaria.”

Merriell grinned, Cheshire cat-like through a veil of smoke. He rested his cheek against the back of his hand, eyes roaming over Eugene’s shuddering form. He felt strangely detached from the situation, watching dark magic racing through the caster’s body, arcing golden and deceptively beautiful over his damp skin, searing away what remained of Eugene’s humanity. He wondered how long it had been too late. “Don’t know if he takes ‘em.”

“I’ll give him a double dose now. If he isn’t better in the morning, let me know. Oh, and don’t panic if his skin turns bright yellow.” The corpsman dug through his medical pack for a bottle of pills.

Merriell focused on the cherry of his dying cigarette in the dim light, ignoring how the two men forced the round, neon yellow tablets down Eugene’s throat. When he glanced up, Leyden was watching him, expression equal parts puzzled and disturbed. He gestured with his cigarette in the rifleman’s direction. “Thought you were injured.”

“I got better,” Leyden replied. “Say, why’s Burgin think you know what’s wrong with Sledge?”

“Because he always knows what’s wrong with Sledge,” Burgin barked as the corpsman left, a ferocity usually reserved for the battlefield lending a dark timber to his voice. He got up from Eugene’s bedside and stalked over to stand in front of Merriell. “He went swimming with you and came back sick, now I order you to tell me what happened.”

“Whew, pulling rank this late at night,” Merriell whistled lowly, tugging his pack of smokes out of his pocket. Burgin snatched the box out of his hands.

“I mean it, Shelton. I am a sergeant now.”

“An’ I’m a corporal but you don’t hear me crowin’ about it.” He had an overwhelming urge to goad Burgin into beating the shit out of him. The thought made him giddy, wanting physical pain to mask the misery stewing inside. He let the butt of his cigarette burn down so far it singed his fingertips.

Burgin’s left eye twitched. He was angry but holding back, always more patient with Merriell than he deserved. “What was it, a jellyfish sting? Some weird native plant that you fed him?”

“C’mon Burgin,” Leyden interjected, cajoling. “Pranks like that you play on boots, not your foxhole buddy.”

Burgin fixed Leyden with a withering glare. “Then how do you explain why Eugene asked ‘where’s Merriell’ before fainting in the mess hall.”

Merriell’s insides twisted up. For hours, he’d zoned out on the beach, trying to make peace with the affection he felt for Eugene and the knowledge that it’d never be returned. To hear that Eugene had called for him, like he wanted him there, like he _needed_ him. He ran the nail of his thumb over his wood ring. There were cracks in the grain now from being waterlogged.

“Your first name is Merriell?” Leyden queried, expression changing from concerned to amazed in the blink of an eye.

“Laugh it up, lil’ man.” Merriell got up from his cot with a groan. He stood nose to nose with Burgin, staring into the Texan’s livid blue eyes for a moment before dropping his gaze and moving to crouch beside Eugene’s cot. Up close, he could see that the beads of sweat dotting Eugene’s wane skin were actually droplets of light magic, sea glass green, evaporating when the insatiable dark magic crackled over them. He smelled ozone and forest fires but when he placed a hand to Eugene’s forehead his skin was freezing. Dark magic had a reputation for being fiery but being claimed by it was the coldest thing a caster could ever experience.

“It’s weird,” Burgin remarked. “Corpsman thinks it’s malaria, but I saw Galey come down with that in Melbourne and he was burning up something fierce. Sledge though, he’s cold as ice.”

The dark magic sensed Merriell and zapped him, pain screaming up his arm, and he jerked his hand back. He bit his lip when Eugene tilted his head to follow the retreating touch. Quickly, he returned to his own cot, rubbing at the palm of his stinging hand. “He’ll be fine, Burgin. Maybe pushed him a bit too hard with the swimming today. Probably just a fever, it’ll burn itself out.”

“You sure about that?” Burgin hovered, looking back and forth between Merriell and Eugene.

“I swear on my mama’s grave, he’s fine. Now gimme back my smokes.” Shoulders slumped in resignation, Burgin tossed the pack to Merriell, who caught it deftly with one hand. He pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and settled back to stare at the ceiling. “Quit frettin’, Burgin. Go to sleep, I’ll take care of him.”

Burgin chuckled tiredly and Merriell heard him collapse into his own cot. “I can see you, Shelton, you don’t even have an eye on him.”

“Don’t need to,” Merriell tapped the center of his forehead. “Got swamp magic. I’ll know if something’s about to go wrong before it even happens.”

Predictably, the two mortals didn’t believe him, but the joke worked to lighten the mood. “Okay, whatever you say Snafu.”

True to his word, Merriell stayed up and smoked, knowing there was nothing he could do to ease Eugene’s suffering. But it meant something to be vigilant, to witness his morality burn away and mix with sand of the Pacific.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is French in this chapter (in context translation in the end notes so you don’t have to scroll back and forth) and I wish I could read it aloud for those of you who don’t speak it.

Things fell apart in Okinawa. After Cape Gloucester, after Peleliu, Merriell thought there was no way the Japanese could get any crueler or more desperate for victory. But the child soldiers proved him wrong and the women and elderly that stumbled crying into their ranks wearing bomb vests brought horrors that he could have never imagined. The rainy season made the situation even worse, sinking them into a stinking mixture of mud, blood, and bodies. For the Marines had learned their lesson on the other islands—never give the Japanese a chance to stand their ground—so they chased them across the land relentlessly, not even stopping to bury the dead. It rattled them, especially the boots who did not stop whining.

“How come I get your shitty old poncho?” Peck, the new loader on their squad, griped as Merriell tricked him into giving up his new rain poncho one morning.

“Because I’m your squad leader and you do what I say, when I say it.” Merriell responded frigidly. He was soaked through, uniform starting to chaff his joints and he just wanted a chance to be dry. Peck looked to Eugene, pleadingly, not knowing he would find no sympathy there. Eugene didn’t even acknowledge him, just hefted their gun onto his shoulder and fell in line with the rest of the men moving out.

Eugene as a dark caster was changed and not. He used the same spells as before, maybe, Merriell couldn’t quite tell. Sometimes, when he calmed a spooked soldier, their expression would take on a dreamy, zombie-like quality, as though he controlled their mind. It didn’t feel any different though, when Eugene knocked him out at night. Being next to him, touching him, was _very_ different. He felt like he had when he put that barrier between them so many months ago, mortal and motionless, practically dead. Merriell had to pinch himself when it was his turn on watch to rein in the urge to wake Eugene up, to check if he was still alive.

Merriell asked once, why Eugene kept up the barrier, why he quit lending him magic. Eugene held his hand and swept the pad of his thumb over Merriell’s knuckles in a mockery of tenderness. “There’s no barriers, Snafu. I’m not capable of that kind of magic anymore.”

The knowledge plunged into Merriell, cold and sharp like a knife. War became a tragedy, a loss of life and love so great it left him breathless, made all the more ironic by Eugene’s steady presence beside him. The rain, the corpses, and the useless boots were driving him mad. Peck especially would not shut the fuck up, which was unfortunate considering how much time they had to spend with him.

Their line on Okinawa was spread out thinly as they razed through towns and flat fields. The mortarmen were arranged in teams of eleven men, three squads directed by an NCO and a runner, and they often went days without seeing other members of K company. Burgin, whose promotion to sergeant had bumped him out of their mortar squad, led Merriell’s team and his newfound duties meant that Merriell didn’t see much of him either. Or De L’Eau, or Leyden, or anybody else he liked better than Peck. He’d even take Hamm, the airheaded new runner before fucking Peck.

Peck was the scum of the earth—drafted instead of enlisted, married but cheating on his wife with a Californian chorus girl named Kathy, and completely emotionally insensitive. On one of the few good days in Okinawa, one with no civilian causalities and only a little morning rain, Eugene received a letter from his parents, telling him his dog had died. Peck’s response? “It’s only a dog.”

Eugene stood, expression unreadable, and climbed out of their foxhole. Merriell scurried after him, throwing his still lit cigarette in Peck’s face. He didn’t take pleasure in Peck’s pained yelp. Eugene was the only thing that mattered. The redhead didn’t walk far, sitting down on the ground with his back against a few empty supply crates, hiding from the team. Merriell knew he wanted to be alone, but the willow wood ring scorched his finger like it often did now, and he plopped down in the mud beside him against his better judgement. He didn’t say anything, just pressed against Eugene’s side, hip to shoulder. He wished he could still feel him, then he’d have some idea of how to comfort him. Merriell refused to believe that turning dark had reduced him to some emotionless, wooden soldier. No, he probably just hid it all away, enclosed in a hard, cold shell of fear and rage.

“Peck’s an idiot.” He tried, hands fluttering uselessly in front of him.

Eugene said nothing, stared straight ahead, folding and unfolding the letter in his hands.

Merriell chewed his lip, waited for Eugene to reply and, when he didn’t, started over. “Wasn’t just a dog to you. Deacon, right? Deacon was your friend. You played catch with him, let him sleep in your bed—"

“Jesus Snaf,” Eugene hung his head, leaning away from him. His ears were bright red. “Don’t start.”

Merriell didn’t let him get far, slung an arm around him to keep him close. “Sledge, I’m tryin’ here. Okay? I’m sorry.”

“I get it,” Eugene assured him, not making eye contact. “Thank you. You can let go of me.”

Reluctantly, Merriell removed his arm but stayed snug against Eugene’s side, feeling a little triumphant when he didn’t move away. He pulled out his cigarettes, eager for another smoke before lights out, tilting the pack to Eugene in offering.

Eugene crossed his arms on top of his knees and laid his head down on them. “I just want a few puffs off yours.”

“Suit yourself,” Merriell flicked open his mechanical lighter. Fighting on Okinawa had tired him out faster than any of the other battles and he couldn’t afford to waste his magic on parlor tricks. “You agree with me though?”

“On what?” Eugene’s brow crinkled in confusion as Merriell passed him the cigarette.

“Peck being an idiot.”

Eugene sniggered, covering his mouth delicately with the back of his hand. “Rude.”

“I know, rudest sonnuvabitch I’ve ever met.”

Peck, waste of a uniform that he was, set off a chain of events by going Asiatic. Merriell couldn’t remember what triggered him. The days bled together so badly now, he could barely recall the last time he was dry or clean or well-fed. One minute their team was sitting around smoking; he and Eugene bickering pointlessly about something. The next, Peck was standing within sight of the line, shouting at the Japs to shoot him. Merriell watched the scene unfold before him in slow motion as Hamm and Eugene leapt up to pull Peck back into cover. The Japs wasted no time firing and Merriell hurled himself into the three men before he could even process the moment, aiming to bowl them all over. Plastered against Eugene’s back, shielding his body with his own, Merriell looked up to find Hamm was the only one still standing. He stared into the private’s eyes as a barrage of bullets ripped through him. Frozen with shock, Merriell let Eugene push him over, let him check for wounds. He could see Eugene’s lips move but he couldn’t listen, couldn’t un-see the life leaving Hamm’s face.

Fuck Peck, that could have been Eugene.

Terrified, close to tears, Merriell found that he didn’t have any anger left. When Eugene grabbed Peck and started punching the daylights out of him, he just wanted the violence to stop. He helped Burgin separate them, clinging to Eugene’s back like he was the only lifeline left in the whole ocean. He wrapped around his arms tightly him, wishing he could feel whatever righteous anger was coursing through him. It would be a welcome distraction from his own terror. He kept thinking, if it had been Eugene, he would have swallowed the barrel of his own gun.

Eugene wrenched out of his grip and for one frightening second Merriell thought he was going to run back to the line. Instead, Eugene swapped their positions, herding Merriell ahead of him towards their foxhole, snarling. “Fuck him. Let Burgin deal with it.”

Still shivering with adrenaline, Merriell slid into the hole, limbs turned to jelly. Every time he closed his eyes, blood puffed out from tears in Eugene’s uniform, brown eyes glazing over, turning vacant. He pressed his fingertips to his temples, like his mother did when he asked about his father, wondering if there was anything more foolish than loving a soldier. The apple didn’t fall far from the tree after all.

“Hey,” Eugene followed him down and placed a hand on his knee. “Snafu, you gotta stop. You’re making yourself sick.”

Merriell blinked at Eugene. Everything about him was wrong; his voice too flat, his face grim and determined. “What?”

“You know.” Eugene leaned forward, hand clamping down like a vice. “You can’t let it claim you. Not here, not now.”

“That’s…I’m not.” The words trickled out of Merriell’s mouth like molasses. His head and his heart were fighting him, making it difficult to grasp the concept that Eugene was dancing around. The air in their foxhole was heavy and stifling. Breathing became strenuous.

“You are,” Eugene rubbed his free hand over his own face, smearing dirt and a bit of blood over his cheekbone. His knuckles were busted open, red and raw. “I know you feel it, but you can’t give into it. You’ll never make it through the rest of the war if you do.”

Merriell’s world narrowed down to Eugene’s hands, long-boned and elegant. Pianist hands scarred and scraped from the vulgar things they were forced to do. One slim finger rested near the corner of his eye, drawing Merriell’s attention to the glimmer of gold in Eugene’s iris. That spark of magic brought him a moment of clarity, like being dunked in cold water. Eugene knew what he was feeling, perhaps had known what his emotions were ever since he gave up dark magic. Eugene knew that Merriell loved him.

“Goddamnit.” Eugene snatched his hand away from Merriell’s knee as though it hurt to touch.

“Did I do the wrong thing?” It was rising up in him quick, barely a breath since his realization and his magic was trying to burst out his skin. But there was pressure from the outside too, steadily growing too warm. Maybe that’s why he didn’t recognize it. A dark claiming was vicious and cold, the light magic felt insistent but not cruel.

For the first time in months, emotion crept into Eugene’s face. His brow crumpled in worry, mouth tight and thin with sadness. “Why? How?”

“I been askin’ myself the same since I met you.” Merriell slumped at the bottom of the foxhole, feeling dizzy and winded, like there was no oxygen in the air.

Moments later, Burgin came around to their foxhole, wanting to join them for the night. Even on the verge of unconsciousness, Merriell could tell from Eugene’s resigned sigh that he would rather deal with anyone else. The last thing Merriell heard before he passed out was Burgin’s voice, exasperated and a little angry.

“Sledgehammer, why’s Snafu keeled over?”

—

Dark magic claimed Merriell when he was young, so young that it didn’t leave much of an impression on him. His memory of it came in snatches—a shock of cold tearing him apart, his mother weeping at his bedside. Dark magic ripped you to shreds and pieced you back together in its own image. In contrast, light magic was a fever dream. It still hurt, suffocated Merriell with an oppressive heat that made his limbs leaden and his joints swell, but it was a healing kind of pain.

He hallucinated about his mother, seeing and hearing her clearly for the first time in years. She fluttered about her kitchen in a buttercup yellow dress, matching kitten heels clicking on the green and ivory checkered linoleum. He sprawled on the floor, the tiles cool against his cheek, listening to her prattle on about the meaning of color. It was an old speech, one he’d heard thousands of times before when tourists came by to get their fortunes told.

“ _Mon cher fils_ , yellow is a Shelton’s lucky color. _Comme le soleil_ , yellow brings life, love, and happiness. Wear a yellow shirt today, I tell you, _demain t’auras de la chance_. Now, people will tell you that blue is a sad color, _ç’amènera de la tristesse_ , but they don’t know how strong blue can be. Blue— _c’est la mer_ , a riptide bringing you out to sea, _c’est la rivière_ , carrying you to the rushes like a babe in its arms. _Et, Merriell, qu’est qui ce passe quand tu mélange jaune et bleu?_ ”

His mother twirled to face him, hem of her dress swishing at her ankles. He licked his lips and croaked, “Mama, you know I don’t speak your language.”

“What happens when you mix yellow and blue, Merriell?” She knelt next to him, cupping his jaw in her cool hands and peering into his eyes. As he looked up at her, he realized that she didn’t look like he remembered her, not worn out, frail, and sickly. He forgot that she must have been young once too; skin smooth and plump, dark curls framing her face, kind and pretty. He had her eyes. Large, round, and nautical green.

“Makes green.” Green like a stormy sea, green like grass, green bottles on a table, leaving rings of condensation on the wood. Green smoke, tinted by the neon lights of the bars, green cars, splashing water up from the streets onto the sidewalk. Green as a gator, grinning as wide and mad and deadly as the Marines in their greens on a train in Melbourne. Green glinting in a brown iris, the only bright spot in a dusty, drab world. Green sprouting from the mud, a verdant vine wrapping around him, forcing its way into his mouth, pushing down his throat, curling around his heart.

He dreamt about Eugene, mundane snapshots interspersed with apparitions of all the ways he could lose him. One minute they’re shooting the shit and sharing a smoke, the next, Merriell’s watching a Jap soldier carve through Eugene’s long neck with his knife. His brown eyes crinkle over a tin of coffee, held up to hide his smile, then they melt down his cheeks, popped by a mortar going off in his face. Eugene on the coral jetties of Pavuvu, legs dangling in the surf, talking about the fishing he used to do back in Mobile. Eugene with his legs blown apart at the knees, screaming. It was a nightmarish carousal and Merriell just wanted to get off.

He blinked and reentered his mother’s kitchen; the same linoleum and scratched up mahogany counters. Except Eugene stood at the table, clean and whole, wearing a familiar yellow gingham shirt and khakis, arranging a motley collection of flowers in a vase. He looked older somehow; hair more auburn than copper, skin winter-pale and freckled. He smiled when he noticed Merriell come in, laugh lines forming at the corners of his eyes and mouth. “Adele told me I could take the lonely ones home.”

“Hmm, ain’t that my shirt?” Merriell’s body was not his own. He set a tin lunchbox down on the counter and stepped up close to Eugene. His breath caught as Eugene slipped an arm around his back, settling his hand low on his spine. Then he kissed Merriell’s cheek, nonchalant and domestic, as though he did it all the time.

“You don’t mind.” Eugene nuzzled along his cheekbone, arms possessive around Merriell’s waist. The affection made Merriell lightheaded, how comfortable it was, how needy. “Haven’t made it round to the laundromat yet.”

Eugene slotted their lips together, kissing him fully and deeply, with no hesitation. Despite loving him, Merriell couldn’t fathom an intimacy like this. Not that he was a stranger to desire, no he’d had his girls and then some, but Eugene seemed sacred to him sometimes. A noble hart deep in the forest, something to be protected but never touched. It paralyzed him to have Eugene licking into his mouth, demanding and dirty. He jumped when Eugene’s hands slid down to cup his ass.

Eugene let him go, stepping back, concerned. “Something wrong?”

“No, I–I’m…” Merriell floundered, feeling faint and too sensitive, like an exposed nerve. He caught Eugene’s hands before he could pull away completely, brought him near again. “Maybe. I’m feelin’ some odd sort of way.”

He hid his face in Eugene’s neck, held his lips against his pulse, inhaled his scent—sweat, tobacco, and lightning. Still dark then, he thought, relaxing as Eugene’s arms surrounded him again, indulgent of Merriell’s desire to escape from the world. His slender fingers tangled gently in Merriell’s curls, protective and caring.

“I love you.”

Tears trickled down the sides of Merriell’s face when he woke up, gathering in the hair at his temples. Disoriented, he stared at the plastic tarp stretched between the wooden crossbeams overhead. Uncurling sluggishly, he braced himself on quivering forearms to look around. He was in a medical tent somewhere. Cots stretched out in neat rows on either side of him, occupied by feverish or broken soldiers. A nurse two cots down noticed him and hurried to his side.

“Let me get you some water,” She manhandled him into laying down again. Too feeble to protest, Merriell relaxed into his cot. Sunlight streamed in through a crack in the tarp, illuminating his bare knuckles. He sat back up with a jolt. Where was his ring?

Frantically, he searched the cot for the willow wood ring; fingers picking through the thin blanket and pillow. The nurse, returning with a pitcher of water and a glass, scolded him for the activity. “Calm down. You are severely dehydrated.”

“My ring, I was wearing a ring. I lost it, I can’t lose it.”

“It’s alright, I’ll get it. Drink your water.” She pressed a half-full glass into his trembling hands before ducking down and tugging a small wooden crate out from under the cot. The willow wood ring perched on top of his folded utilities. “We had to take it off you. Dengue fever causes your joints to swell like nothing else.”

Merriell tried to grab the ring but the nurse held it out of his reach, tutting. “Finish your water first.”

Petulantly, Merriell downed the glass, angry at the tremor in his muscles that caused him to spill most of it. The nurse insisted he drink another before handing him the ring. He jammed it onto his finger, frowning in surprise at the mild tingling that accompanied it. He was used to a fiery burning sensation, but now the magic of the ring felt cool and minty.

“Ma’am, when can I get back to the front?”

The nurse shook her head. “We need to keep you here for a few days at least. You’ve had a high-grade fever for a week. You are far from fighting fit.”

Panic clawed up Merriell’s throat. A week. He hadn’t left Eugene’s side for the better part of a year. And the way they carried on here in Okinawa, Eugene could be dead and lost already, one more faceless body stacked in a shallow grave somewhere, someplace that Merriell would never find. He hadn’t even said a proper goodbye. Merriell’s vision blurred, breath coming sharp and too fast.

“Hey, breathe with me now,” The nurse sat on the edge of his cot, tucking him under her arm, letting him feel her ribcage contract and expand slowly, rhythmically. “In and out.”

Merriell failed to imitate her, head spinning.

“Your boy is fine,” She cooed, petting his hair. “Come on now, try and breathe.”

He couldn’t, drowning in the uncertainty of Eugene’s fate. His mother had the foresight, what if he had it now too? Which one of those hallucinations would become real? His lungs spasmed, dark spots dancing across his field of view.

The nurse jostled him roughly. “Hey now. What’s his name?”

“Gene,” Merriell gasped.

“Okay, I’m going to ask you some questions, corporal, and you nod or shake your head to answer them, you hear?” She squeezed his shoulder, a grip so strong it was uncomfortable, and Merriell nodded.

“Gene, you’ve always had his back, right?” He nodded.

“He’s got yours?” Another nod.

“And you trusted him with that. With your life?” Merriell burst out crying. He tried his best to muffle his sobs in the nurse’s lap. She rubbed his back and kept talking. “Gene’s kept himself safe just as he’s kept you safe. He can take care of himself, honey. Now just let it out. Let yourself breathe. That’s it. Nothing wrong with a good cry. I know it’s hard. I got a friend on a Naval ship right now. I worry about her every day, seeing them sinking offshore. I think, what if she’s on that one. Then lo-and behold. The next day she’s sending me a telegram, and all is well.”

The nurse let Merriell hang onto her for a long time. There was nothing romantic about it, if anything she hushed him often like a mother would a fussy babe. She waved off the concerned stares of other medical personnel and ran a hand through his curls, chatting about nothing. She was from a northern state called Michigan and painted a rather vivid picture of the winters there. She fancied herself an artist but joined the Navy with her friend Lucy after the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. Somehow, they both weren’t dead.

“You been at war for three years?” Merriell finally lifted his head from her lap. She scooted away from him and at long last he got a good look at her. A handsome woman, as tall as him and just as broad, with thick, graying brown hair tucked at the nape of her neck.

“We all have,” She poured him another glass of water. “I’ve seen everything they put you boys through and watched you come out the other side. You’re in pieces, but as Winston Churchill says, you carry on.”

“You think he’s still alive out there? My Gene.”

The nurse sighed and pushed Merriell down on the cot, shaking out the thin, gray blanket and tucking him in. “I think you’re sick, honey. The worst of it’s out now, but you need a lot more rest.”

On the doctor’s orders, Merriell stayed in bed for the next three days, dozing on and off. He couldn’t decide which was worse; the anxious boredom of smoking and fretting during his waking hours or the kaleidoscope of prophecies that plagued his dreams. Scenes played through his head, sometimes his mother and the ghosts of her past, but often the future and usually about Eugene. Merriell didn’t dare put stock in any of them; for Eugene appeared dead as regularly as he did alive and, if they both lived, they parted ways more frequently than they stayed together.

“Darlin’,” His mother drawled, smoking on the balcony of her apartment with a Tarot spread on the small round table in front of her. “Foresight ain’t destiny. Every lil’ thin’ I see can’t come true.”

Prior to being carted back to the front, Merriell’s mind latched onto a particular image—his willow wood ring in the palm of Eugene’s hand. At this point, his head felt so jumbled he didn’t know if it was a good or bad omen. There were a million reasons why Eugene might have had his ring in the moment Merriell glimpsed, the most likely option being that Merriell was dead. Bouncing around in the back of a jeep, amid supply crates and drums of water, Merriell ground the heel of his hands into his eye sockets, trying to dislodge the foreboding feeling.

“Mama, did you know?” He leaned against the iron railing, watching her shuffle and relay the cards. He understood now the far off looks and one-sided conversations she often had with herself. In this instant, she was frail and sickly, probably weeks away from dying.

“ _Sais_ _quoi_ , _mon étoile de la mer_?” She palmed a card, changing the lay with a barely perceptible flick of her wrist. Merriell couldn’t read Tarot, but he imagined that his mother only lied to make things seem better.

“Did you know I’d turn light if you sent me to war?” He asked, waiting for her to finish sipping from her favorite star-patterned teacup.

Her pencil thin eyebrows rose high in surprise. “Well, now I do.”

Of course, Merriell had fucked himself.

War created the oddest sense of Stockholm Syndrome, and Merriell felt more relief jumping off the back of the jeep and tramping back to his company than he ever had in his entire life. He caught sight of Burgin first and, a little past him, a head of matted copper hair.

“Well, I’ll be. You survived!” Burgin ran up to embrace him. His shout alerted the rest of the men, who turned to look. The team quickly became excited when they noticed Merriell, except Eugene, who avoided his gaze. Merriell tightened his hold on Burgin to hide his wounded expression. “When you started seizing in that foxhole I thought for sure that was the last of you!”

“Take more than some skeeter disease to kill me.”

Burgin pushed him back to look him over. “Wait, so it was malaria?”

“No, Dengue fever. Supposed to be better since it doesn’t stick around in your blood.”

Burgin shook his head, grinning. “Better. Fuck, I’m glad you’re back.”

“Yeah.” Now that Eugene was back in his sights, the tension in Merriell’s body lessened. The fear of him dying was still there, but at least Merriell could be here for it now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translated paragraph of Merriell’s mother’s speech: My beloved son, yellow is a Shelton’s lucky color. Like the sun, yellow brings life, love, and happiness. Wear a yellow shirt today, I tell you, tomorrow will be lucky for you. Now, people will tell you that blue is a sad color, that it will being sadness, but they don’t know how strong blue can be. Blue—it’s the ocean, a riptide bringing you out to sea, it’s the river, carrying you to the rushes like a babe in its arms. And, Merriell, what happens when you mix yellow and blue?”  
> And: “Know what, my sea star?” She palmed a card…


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings specific to this chapter include alcoholism and non-verbal consent to oral sex.

Two days after Merriell’s return, the Japanese surrendered Okinawa. Two months later, the United States dropped the atomic bombs and Japan lost the war. Their regiment was still stationed in Okinawa, cleaning up, when the news arrived. At first, nobody believed it was true and they continued to toil, steeling themselves for the inevitable invasion of the Japanese homeland. Then one day the higher ups scrounged up some booze and gave them the night off. Finally convinced that the end of the war had come, most of the men meandered about the shoreline garrison in large, raucous groups, howling the National Anthem and the corps fighting song.

Merriell, though, he smuggled a bottle of Japanese whisky and lost himself in the nearest forest. Despite the United States’ best efforts to thoroughly destroy the island, a few patches of jungle had survived with minimal damage. Perched on a flat, mossy rock, Merriell chain-smoked and drank, watching the wildlife pass him by. Small, green and yellow birds were particularly abundant, their beady, white-ringed eyes glossing over him as they flitted about. He envied their simple lives.

“Birds are very free, aren’t they?” Merriell had been ignoring the distant laughter and footsteps of men, but the sound of Eugene’s voice didn’t startle him. He was drunk enough to question if this was real or another vision. Eugene clambered up to sit beside him on the rock, shirtless in the humid August heat. His lips and nipples looked very pink.

“You drunk?” Merriell noted how Eugene swayed slightly. The redhead smirked, pressing their bare shoulders together deliberately. A blush spread across his freckled cheeks and his brown eyes sparked golden in the darkness.

“You’re drunk.” He teased, making a grab for Merriell’s smoke. Gritting his teeth against the desire that bolted through his chest, Merriell dodged him, wincing as their skin peeled apart. He took a swig of whisky, shuddering at the burn, and passed the bottle to Eugene, who accepted it gleefully. “Aw, this is nicer than the stuff Burgin has. No wonder you’re off drinking alone.”

“Just can’t stomach mortals too much anymore.” Merriell lied, puffing at his cigarette. Ever since he came back from sick leave, he’d been avoiding Eugene, reluctant to broach the subject of the betrayal between them. The more he ruminated on it, the more it sickened him that Eugene had known how he was feeling the whole time and never told him.

The whisky bottle clinked as Eugene set it down behind them. “Do you wish you were a bird, Merriell?”

“Oh, it’s Merriell now, is it?” He was irritated by the airy tone of Eugene’s voice. He sounded so damn flippant all the time, like nothing and nobody mattered.

“That is your name,” Eugene leaned back on his hands, torso stretched out long and lean. Merriell counted his ribs with ease. “Unless there’s something you haven’t been telling me.”

Merriell laughed at that, a harsh cackle that startled the little green birds into hiding. “As if I could hide anything from you. Just cop a feel, Sledgehammer, I’m an open book.”

Gooseflesh peppered his arms despite the muggy air, triggered by Eugene’s intense glare. Purposefully, the empath placed a single finger on the joint of Merriell’s left wrist. Merriell hoped Eugene could feel all of the chaos roiling up in him. How Merriell hated him and loved him, how he agonized over every second they were apart but couldn’t stand to be with him, how it was driving him mad to want him, and how Merriell knew that Eugene could only take. How, in spite of that fact, Merriell craved a chance to give.

Eugene withdrew his touch, rubbing his fingers together pensively. “I’ll never understand you, Merriell.”

“Guess that makes two of us,” Merriell stubbed out his cigarette. He reached blindly for the bottle, yearning for the fuzzy comfort that came with being blackout drunk. Eugene watched him, eyes narrowed like they did when he got serious.

“I don’t mean it like I don’t want to understand you,” Eugene clarified. “But you gotta know that this is a sin.”

Merriell’s pulse pounded as he sloshed more whisky into his mouth. “A sin? I’ve killed and maimed hundreds of Japs, you think I give a fuck about sins? What you thinkin’, threatin’ me with your mortal religion as if I give a shit.”

Eugene gaped like a fish, a range of emotions, albeit limited, flashing across his face. First shock, then confusion, then anger, before settling into his usual blank expression. “This would be so much easier if you thought about yourself for once.”

“Tryin’ to let me down gently?” Merriell snapped, disappointed but not surprised that Eugene’s advice was to be selfish. “Don’t bother. I’d rather you rip my heart out.”

 “Have you already forgotten what it’s like to be dark? I’d tear you to pieces with my goddamn teeth if I could.” Eugene swayed close again, the sweaty skin of his shoulder sticking to Merriell’s back as he whispered in his ear. “And you’re such a sick fuck, you’d let me.”

 A shiver of want zipped up Merriell’s spine at Eugene’s words, for the longing hidden there. Merriell’s love for Eugene gave the man power over him, some semblance of control during a time when they had none. But this love wasn’t such a weakness that Merriell had no will of his own. He wasn’t some dog at Eugene’s beck and call. But, of course, he _wanted_ to do anything Eugene asked of him. He wanted Eugene to use him, to _need_ him. The idea of being submissive drove him crazy. He’d had dreams of being on his knees for Eugene and the memory swept through him like fire, igniting the lust in his blood.

Cocking his head like a curious bird, Eugene pushed Merriell flat on the rock and loomed over him. The glint in his eye hinted that he was in a mood to be cruel. Merriell hadn’t forgotten that dark casters got cravings. Back in New Orleans, he slaked his thirst for meanness by hustling people out of their hard-earned money. He wondered what vice Eugene would use to sate the hate. He pictured him using violence; black eyes, busted lips, and bloody knuckles.

Eugene brought a hand to Merriell’s neck, wrapping his elegant fingers loosely around his windpipe, palm against his Adam’s apple and thumb pressed to his pulse. His thumb stroked soothingly, once, twice. The touch felt dangerous, but he never put his weight behind it, just rested his hand there lightly. Still, Merriell held his breath. “I know you don’t care about your own sins, Merriell, but I need to start reining mine in. You’re too indulgent, I’m getting greedy just looking at you. Just thinking about the things you’d let me do.”

Merriell reveled in the licentious tone of Eugene’s voice, in the pressure of his aching lungs and the sound of his blood rushing frantic and hot through his veins. He teetered on a razor’s edge, fighting the darkness fringing his vision to stay in this timeless, breathless space. Then Eugene released him. He leaned in close as Merriell exhaled unsteadily, hand moving from his throat to his jaw. Merriell barely got a few breaths in before Eugene kissed him. A surprisingly gentle, open mouthed press of lips. Eugene sat back, watching Merriell stabilize his breathing. This had to be a dream. Any moment he’d be shaken awake in his cot and he’d spend another day exhuming rotting corpses from their shallow graves.

“It’s not good for you to love me like you do.” Silhouette blurring in the darkness, head tilted to look up at the stars through the forest canopy, Eugene cautioned Merriell against wanting too much.

—

Even though the war was over, they didn’t get to go home right away. With Okinawa deemed sufficiently repaired by government standards, their battalion was sent to Peking, China. Although many men grumbled at the assignment, longing to return Stateside after many years in the Pacific, Merriell found that he didn’t mind too much. The crowded main streets reminded him vaguely of certain avenues in New Orleans, especially the market block storefronts, with their colorful displays of produce or handcrafted wares. The press of people soothed him, protected him. There was safety in numbers.

Merriell couldn’t tell whether Eugene liked China. He didn’t complain as much as Burgin, but he didn’t slip the MPs as much as Merriell and Leyden either. Unlike on Pavuvu, he stuck to the rules rigidly, only leaving the garrison for patrol and on approved day passes, spending the rest of the time in the garrison, smoking his pipe and scrawling in a moleskin notebook he’d bought during their first free day in the city.

“The problem is that they’re country boys,” Leyden banged his fist on the sticky bar top. They’d all gone out for drinks on a day pass. Burgin and Eugene had returned to the garrison hours ago, when the pass expired, but Merriell and Leyden were in the habit of staying out. “They need their space, their ‘peace and quiet’. Christ, I got more ‘peace and quiet’ on Peleliu than I’ve ever had on Long Island.”

“Boy I hear ya. Don’t think I knew what ‘quiet’ meant til’ I left New Orleans,” Merriell chuckled, lighting a cigarette with his new silver lighter. During the war, he’d never had much of an opinion about Bill Leyden, considering he wasn’t a mortarmen, but the more they hung out the more he liked him. They had a lot in common—drinking, gambling, and crippling insomnia. The main reason why they spent most nights dodging the MPs was because neither of them could sleep. Merriell didn’t know what kept Leyden up at night, but he personally suffered from night terrors and a nauseating spiral of past-future hallucinations. Worse yet, the five other men that shared his room twitched and yelped from their own nightmares. Eugene had it particularly bad, regularly whimpering and talking in his sleep with a vulnerability that tugged terribly at Merriell’s heartstrings. Naturally, the best solution was to get piss drunk and not sleep at all.

As they switched from lukewarm Chinese lagers to liquor, Leyden proposed another vice to occupy their nights. “You know what we need? To get laid.”

“Couldn’t agree more.” Merriell’s gut churned at the thought. Masturbation was one thing, but he hadn’t touched a woman in years. He doubted he could even get it up for a girl, not with his head all messed up about Eugene. Before he started staying out all night drinking, he’d had a vision of himself sucking Eugene off in his mother’s living room. Shame coursed through him at the hedonistic display; the sight of his own broad hands pressing into Eugene’s trim thighs, Eugene’s fingers tugging roughly at his hair, his spit-slick red lips stretched around Eugene’s cock. He’d jerked awake, trembly and hot, and became obsessed with the thought of taking Eugene in his mouth ever since.  

“I think Wright can hook us up. I hear he frequents the opium dens and those are right next to the red-light district. And,” Leyden gestured with his hands excitedly, “There’s rumors of some good gambling around there too.”

“Should make it a company outin’.” Merriell slammed his drink and clapped Leyden on the back. “Sounds like there’s somethin’ for everybody. Drugs, whores, and cards. Take your pick. Think Bible-thumpin’ Sledgehammer’s ever seen a pussy before?”

Leyden howled with laughter at Merriell’s joke and Merriell feigned a smile. It was easy to imagine Eugene with a girl on his arm; some lithe, wisp of a woman with perfectly coifed blonde hair. There was nothing funny about it.

Slipping into breakfast the next morning, they posed their grand plan to Merriell’s bunkmates. The idea was met with variable enthusiasm. Prochazka and Kircher, two young Okinawa vets, were invigorated by it. Even O’Connell, a wet-behind the ears replacement troop who showed up during the clean-up, seemed intrigued.

“Gonna lose your V-card, Connie?” Kircher teased, despite being barely twenty years old himself, pinching O’Connell’s reddening cheek.

“Count me out,” Burgin mumbled through a mouthful of rice. He pointed his spoon at Leyden and Merriell warningly. “The MPs are onto your little games. Nothing good can come of this and I don’t want to be associated with you anymore than I already am.”

“Come on, Burgie, we’ll make it legit,” Leyden coaxed. “It’s getting close to Thanksgiving back home and the higher ups are getting generous with the night passes. Plus, Prochazka’s birthday is coming up, ain’t it?”

Prochazka nodded eagerly. “Yessir, I’m turning nineteen on the nineteenth.”

“That’s perfect!” Leyden exclaimed. “See, Burgie, it’d be a shame not to celebrate the boy’s golden birthday. And the MPs won’t bat an eye if you ask.”

Like children, the four men pestered Burgin with a chorus of ‘please, please, please,’ until he agreed. “Fine, but don’t expect me to step foot in a brothel. Now, how many passes do we need?”

“Sledge, you want in?” Kircher queried, leaning over the table to look at Eugene, perched at the end of the bench.

Eugene, who’d spent the majority of breakfast resolutely ignoring the jabbering men, shook his head. “Got a reputation to uphold. Don’t need to be seen in the underbelly of the city with the likes of you.”

Merriell watched Kircher scowl at Eugene’s icy tone. Kircher was a surprisingly hot-headed little mutt from Colorado. Merriell respected him because he was the only other man in their company who started fights as often as he did. “What reputation? Don’t you have some marks for disorderly conduct from Okinawa?”

“Uh, I might’ve…” Burgin shot Eugene a sheepish look. The redhead stared back coolly, one eyebrow raised. “Might’ve forgotten to write him up a time or two.”

Merriell whistled amidst the whining that erupted from the other men. He’d bet all of his money that Eugene spelled Burgin into forgetting to serve those citations. “I see how it is, write me up for swattin’ a fly but Sledgehammer could run a bootleggin’ operation and jus’ get a slap on the wrist.”

“I ain’t playing favorites,” Burgin protested hotly. He threw his hands up in exasperation. “Geez, I’ll get the night passes! Just promise to be on good behavior and come straight back to the garrison after. Especially you, Snafu. I hear the MPs gossiping and you’re one bad deed from a night in the brig.”

Being in the garrison made Merriell’s skin itch. It rankled him, how the war was over, but his life still belonged to the corps. They controlled what he ate, when he ate it; how he shat, slept, and showered. He felt suffocated by his uniform, hated how it drew attention in the city. He craved anonymity in a crowd, wanted to slip in and out of people like he used to in New Orleans with no more than a passing glance aimed in his direction. The MPs demanded that they wore their greens on liberty passes to make them easier to spot and corral. Merriell broke that rule often, had purchased a few button-up shirts in patterns that he saw the locals wear to make blending in easier.

The night of Prochazka’s birthday, he was sliding into his favorite shirt—white with a yellow and sky-blue pinwheel print—when Burgin caught sight of him and ordered him to put on his uniform.

“What did I say,” Burgin sighed, watching Merriell change, hands on his hips like a disappointed father. “We’re doing this outing by the book. I’ve seen your tricks, you’re not giving me the slip.”

“You gonna hold my hand in the whorehouse, too?”

Eugene sniggered quietly from his bunk, where he lounged smoking his pipe and reading a book. Burgin flushed beet red but continued to stare Merriell down. “Thought you’d just want to play cards.”

“I can play poker anywhere, anytime. Tonight, I’m gettin’ my dick wet,” Merriell grinned cheekily, haphazardly knotting his tie.

Peking on an autumn night glittered with frost and fluorescent lamplights. Leyden’s friend, Wright, led them through the streets with purpose, from the quiet neighborhoods surrounding the garrison into a bustling bar district. Smoke drifted overhead, hazy in the cold air, the storefronts blurred into a mix of modern metal and oriental woodwork. Down a brightly lit alleyway, Merriell glimpsed a set of tables arranged in a courtyard, heard the incessant clacking of mahjong tiles. He’d never played but the game intrigued him, reminded him of his aunts and mother reading bones on his grandma’s porch.

Kircher nudged him forward. “Time for gamblin’ later, Shelton.” 

The brothel was hidden in plain sight, a windowless shop with a red-painted door. The foyer was poorly lit but clean, decorated with provocative but tasteful pictures of Chinese women. Merriell recognized a few of the Marines already inside, but he didn’t know their names. A stocky, grey haired woman sat behind the counter, taking and counting the men’s money.

“Go through, pick a girl,” She waved at the imposing bouncer standing in front of a curtained doorway. The bouncer drew aside the curtain and ushered the men through, one at a time.

Their group formed an orderly queue, Prochazka and Kircher pushing a blushing O’Connell to the front of the line. Merriell hovered next to Burgin at the back. For all his bravado, he was losing his nerve. Part of him wanted to leave and charm some old ladies into teaching him how to play mahjong, but another part saw the salacious images framed on the wall and hungered. A portrait of a girl with parted, lush red lips made his mouth water, but not for the obvious reason. Beside him, Burgin shifted restlessly.

“Won’t tease you none if you want to go play cards.” Merriell assured him.

Burgin cleared his throat. “I wish I wanted to. Just feel a bit guilty, that’s all.”

Merriell hummed, surreptitiously placing himself at the back of the line. He felt mild surprise at Burgin expressing basic human urges like the rest of them. “What Florence don’t know can’t hurt her.”

Burgin didn’t reply to that, just moved his weight from foot to foot as they waited, back ramrod straight. After Burgin paid and disappeared behind the gauzy red curtain, Merriell realized he didn’t want to be there.

The old woman held out her hand for his money. “Want a picture with a girl?”

“No ma’am, just droppin’ the boys off. I’m gonna play mahjong.” He winked at her and she shooed him out. He ducked out of the shop quickly then, nervous under the bouncer’s suspicious gaze. Backtracking to the little alleyway, he peered into the courtyard. The rhythmic clicking of the ivory tiles hypnotized him, brought a tingle to back of his neck and with it the scent of salt and lightning. The willow wood ring prickled against his skin. Goddamn foresight. Merriell returned to the garrison, sneaking a six-pack of beer into the barracks.

Eugene did a double-take when he entered the room. “Isn’t it a little early to get kicked out of a brothel?”

“Wasn’t kicked out,” Merriell set the beer down at the foot of his bunk. He toed off his shoes and loosened the tie around his neck, keen to escape his uniform. Eugene scrutinized him like he expected him to elaborate. Stripping down to his trousers, finally free, Merriell shucked off his shirt, shook himself like a wet dog, and opened a bottle of beer. Out of habit, he offered it to Eugene.

“This is weird,” Eugene remarked, putting aside his book and accepting the drink. “You stay out all night every chance you get. What’s wrong?”

Merriell shrugged, opening another and taking a long draught, relishing in the cool fizz of the carbonation. “Why’s somethin’ gotta be wrong?”

“Contrary to popular belief, I do look out for you, Merriell.”

The hair at the nape of Merriell’s neck stood up, signaling something was about to change between them. “Can’t you call me Snafu like everyone else?”

Eugene regarded Merriell pensively, teeth worrying the stem of his pipe. He could hear the wood creaking under the pressure and stared into the bubbles of his beer, waiting for Eugene to finish mulling over his request. As his mother would say, they were at a crossroads. He’d seen this moment before, felt the winter static in the air, traced the path of Eugene’s fingers through the condensation on the bottle with his eyes a million times. He couldn’t remember what should happen next, just knew that they would not be the same once the night was over.

“You’re not Snafu anymore. Haven’t been for a while,” Eugene said finally, setting aside his pipe on the little end table between their cots. He took a sip from his beer and licked his lips. “You want to tell me what’s eating at you? And don’t give me some smart reply. Just because I can feel your emotions doesn’t mean I’m a mind reader. Your thoughts are your own.”

“You wanna know what I’m thinkin’?” Merriell sat down at the foot of Eugene’s cot, facing the door. He couldn’t look at him or he’d lose his nerve. “I ever tell you what my kin do for a livin’?”

“No, I just know they all have magic.” Something clattered on the bedside table. Merriell was tempted to look but he didn’t, choosing his next words carefully. He jumped when Eugene bumped his arm to give him a lit cigarette.

“Thanks,” He took a steadying drag. “Shelton clan’s a walkin’ voodoo cliché. We hustle people. I could bump into a man in the street and swipe all the money from his wallet before I turned ten. Ma told fortunes. Things weren’t too great for lots of us during the Depression, but Ma had her regulars. Ladies from old money, wantin’ to know ‘bout their husband’s affairs or whether so an’ so would be a good match. She had this speech about colors an’ how you could change your future.”

Merriell trailed off, running his tongue over his teeth, wondering if he should continue. Eugene stayed quiet, listening. Merriell pushed through the hesitation with a heavy sigh. “Anyways, I thought she was crazy, see. She could tell the future, saw it in her dreams and when she was awake. She’d have a vision in a cup of fuckin’ coffee. I’d be there, watchin’ her talk to herself, starin’ off into space, wonderin’ ‘what the hell am I gonna do with this batshit ol’ lady’. Hell, I was so mean to her an’ I didn’t have any right to be. But I just didn’t understand her like I do now. I couldn’t see that she was talkin’ to me. An’ not the me who was right there in front of her, hungover and angry— _me_ , right now me. The same one sittin’ here talkin’ to you.”

Merriell downed the rest of his beer. Eugene prodded his hip with his bare toe, prompting Merriell to look at him. Leaned up against the wall with one leg stretched out and the other bent at the knee, balancing his beer on his kneecap, Eugene looked exceptionally soft. Despite the harsh glow of the overhead lights, his face was relaxed and open. He brushed his foot against Merriell’s hip in a small, comforting gesture. He was acting like he did in Merriell’s visions, sweet and kind, the darkness just a shadow behind his eyes, and oh, how Merriell wanted.

“Do you think you’re going crazy?” Condensation gathered on Eugene’s fingertips, water droplets beading up around them and the glass. Merriell wanted to take his fingers in his mouth, feel them cool and slick on his tongue. The longing bubbled up in him, spilling over, intense and impossible to ignore.

Merriell stared at his own hands, twisting the willow wood ring around and around on his finger. “I get them, now an’ again. The visions. An’ yeah, sometimes I think they’re drivin’ me mad. Have a hard time tellin’ what’s real or not, when I’m asleep or awake. I know if I see her, then it’s the foresight, but I see you a lot too and that’s when it gets bad. I can’t tell if what I’m seein’ is real or a vision or just somethin’ I want. An’ I’m scared, Gene, of losin’ my mind and losin’ you.”

“You’re not going to lose me, Merriell,” Eugene said reassuringly.

“You say that, but you don’t know what I’ve got goin’ on in my head.” Merriell chuckled, pressing his fingers to his temples. He tried not to think lustful thoughts about Eugene, but it was getting harder the longer they idled in post-war peace. Tonight’s misadventure to the brothel made it even clearer that Merriell’s desires had reached a point of no return.

Eugene scoffed. “Try me. I’ve been through hell. I think there are few things left in the world that I’d find shocking.”

“I want to blow you.”

Eugene’s eyes widened, naïve and confused, like they were when they first met. His jaw dropped but no noise escaped. The world was silent, calm but electric like the eye of a storm. If they moved the peace would break and Merriell didn’t know whether the winds would push them together or pull them apart. After what seemed like an eternity of stillness, he flicked his cigarette away, let it fizzle out on the concrete floor. Holding his gaze, Eugene licked his lips and slid his outstretched leg off the cot, dropping his foot to the ground, thighs spread apart, inviting. Slowly, Merriell settled between his legs.

“Anyone ever touch you before?” He smoothed his hand over the crease between Eugene’s crotch and his left leg, still bent at the knee and braced on the bed. He could feel Eugene’s cock twitching under his touch. Eugene shook his head, cheeks flushed, strands of copper hair falling onto his forehead, obscuring his eyes. Merriell leaned over, aiming to kiss him, but Eugene tucked his head into his shoulder when he got close. Merriell pressed his lips to the shell of Eugene’s ear, disguising his disappointment with a breathy admission. “I ain’t done this either.”

Deliberate and slow, Merriell unbuttoned Eugene’s trousers and tugged the zipper down, keeping an eye on him, waiting for him to say ‘stop’. He observed Merriell with a heavy-lidded gaze, pink lips parted. Gently, Merriell slid one hand under the waistband of Eugene’s underwear, carding through the red curling hair there before taking him in his hand. He felt warm and thick and Merriell’s mouth watered. Easing himself onto his elbows, hovering over Eugene’s cock, Merriell inhaled the musky scent of him. Eugene drew in a sharp breath, and Merriell chanced one last look at him. The redhead breathed halting but deep, visibly quivering, gripping his beer with one white-knuckled hand, the other tangled in the sheets. He gave Merriell a little nod.

The taste, tangy sweat and bitterness, was not alien to Merriell. He’d kissed girls after they’d gone down on him before and Eugene had a similar flavor, albeit stronger and smokier. Merriell closed his eyes and curved his tongue around the head, flicking over the glans, fascinated by the absence of foreskin. A whimper escaped Eugene, accompanied by an aborted thrust of his hips. Merriell gripped Eugene’s hipbone to keep him still but slid more of Eugene’s cock into his mouth obligingly. Mindful of his teeth, he tested how far he could take it, pulling back when his soft palette spasmed uncomfortably around the head. Eugene’s cock was enviably long and Merriell felt oddly disappointed that he couldn’t swallow him all the way down, instead having to keep his hand wrapped around the base. Imitating the blow jobs that he’d enjoyed, Merriell set up a rhythm; bobbing, stroking, and squeezing lightly on Eugene’s shaft.

“Oh, fuck.” Merriell glanced up at Eugene’s gasp, taking in how his head tipped back in pleasure. His free hand moved from the sheets to clutch at Merriell’s shoulder. “Fuck, I’m close.”

The desire to have Eugene come in his mouth burst in Merriell’s chest and he picked up the pace. He rolled his tongue over the head and along the thick, underside vein until Eugene orgasmed. Bitter semen flooded his mouth, copious and thicker than he expected. It tasted awful. He drooled a bit as he pulled off Eugene’s cock, hand catching the excess dripping from his lips. Stubbornly he met Eugene’s gaze and swallowed. 

Eugene’s expression was neutral, although his hands trembled as he tucked his cock away and zipped up his pants. Knowing better than to expect some token of affection or a ‘thank you’ or an offer to return the favor, Merriell adjusted his own erection and stood up from the cot. He opened another beer, gulping it down voraciously to chase away the pervasive taste of Eugene’s seed. A cold lump settled in the pit of his stomach. In the aftermath of such an intimate act, he felt no more certain about the fate of their relationship than he did before. Worse yet, he wanted more—wanted to consume Eugene whole, to keep him so safe and warm he’d never leave.

“I guess that was a little shocking.” Eugene’s bemused voice broke Merriell out of his thoughts. Lazy and boneless, like any man after an orgasm, Eugene smirked at Merriell, dark eyes large and unreadable. Merriell was speechless, throat sticky and dry despite the beer. “But you’re gonna have to try a hell of a lot harder to scare me off.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank everyone who regularly read and commented on this fic. It has been a very fun story to write and I’m just happy that I worked up the nerve to post it instead of lurking in this fandom forever.   
> Warnings for this chapter include brief sexual content, this time without explicit consent and with very slight dom/sub undertones.

Merriell still stayed out most nights when he could, to the endless frustration of the MPs and Burgin, but every Wednesday and Sunday night Prochazka and Kircher were on patrol and Burgin and O’Connell went out to dinner then to Catholic mass. In the three or so hours before they returned, Merriell got onto his knees for his own kind of worship. Merriell sucked Eugene off exploratively, testing his own limits and learning what Eugene liked before retreating to his cot to chain-smoke. He enjoyed the weight and heat of Eugene in his mouth, practically purred with delight whenever Eugene praised him. As he gained more control over his gag reflex, he encouraged Eugene to set the pace—how fast, how far. It surprised Merriell, how lust sparked in his blood when Eugene pressed his thumb into the corner of his jaw, tipping his head back and thrusting deep into his throat.

He never anticipated that Eugene would return the favor in any capacity. Mid-way through December, Merriell swiped his tongue over the corner of his mouth, licking away the remnants of saliva and semen, and stood up. As he was turning back to his bunk, Eugene caught him by his hips and toppled him onto the cot. Quick and predatory, Eugene pinned him, one hand pressed to the erection tenting his trousers. Taken off guard, Merriell bucked up into his hand. Used to evening blue balls, the slight friction had him shivering.

“Why don’t you ever jack off?” Eugene wondered aloud as he shoved Merriell’s pants and underwear off his narrow hips. “Clearly, having a cock in your mouth gets you riled up, but never once have I seen you touch yourself. Why is that?”

“Why’s it bother you?” Merriell panted, still short of breath from giving head. He squeezed his eyes shut when Eugene gripped him, too tight and dry to be comfortable but amazing compared to being trapped in his trousers.

“Open your eyes.” Eugene ordered, taking his hand away. Merriell whimpered, flushed immediately with embarrassment, and obeyed. He watched as Eugene licked broad stripes across his palm before returning it to Merriell’s cock. Eugene struggled for a beat with the angle before letting go again and snapping at Merriell to sit up. Dizzy with arousal, Merriell allowed Eugene to pull him into his lap, back pressed to Eugene’s front. Then Eugene reached around, grasping his cock again, other hand skating over Merriell’s belly and chest. He rolled his nipples between his fingers, playing with his pecs as though he were a girl. As far as hand jobs went, Merriell would rate it as one of the most erotic experiences he’d ever had despite Eugene’s dry hand and very poor technique.

Eugene held Merriell by the throat as he jacked him and talked into his ear, low and threatening. “It just makes me mad. I know you like it, though you pretend like you’re doing it to please me. You’re not doing it for me, you’re in this for you. So, I don’t want your selfless act, don’t want you to be nice and on your best behavior. You’re already on your knees, I want you to act like the whore that you are.”

Merriell came with a moan when Eugene called him a whore, shame coursing through him as he ejaculated into Eugene’s hand. With a skill that could only came from hiding masturbatory habits from religious parents, Eugene contained Merriell’s spunk neatly in his palm. For a moment he stared at it as though he couldn’t quite believe what had just happened, then he tucked his face against Merriell’s, smiling impishly into the juncture of his neck and jaw, and wiped his hand clean on Merriell’s stomach.

Merriell shuddered at the sticky, slimy sensation. “What the fuck? There’s an old PT shirt right there, Gene!”

“You like being dirty,” Eugene justified before pushing him away and retrieving his book from the bedside table. His golden gaze and easy smile made Merriell hot with humiliation. He wiped the mess from his stomach, irritated with how the semen clung to the hair of his happy trail, knowing that Eugene only said what Merriell wanted to hear. Feeling equal parts aroused and ashamed, Merriell contemplated whether Eugene actually liked what was going on between them or if he only did it to satisfy the sinfulness that darkness demanded.

It was impossible to get Eugene to talk about emotions. He had become so different from the man who stood in the ocean on Pavuvu and confessed that his anger was turning him dark. Where once he acted out of genuine kindness, now he wielded empathy like a weapon, playing on people’s fear and anxiety with a passive, well-placed word. He strangled Merriell with affection, caressed him and sweet-talked him. But, despite how much time they spent together, how intimate they became with each other’s bodies, Eugene kept his thoughts to himself. Merriell worried that Eugene was reeling him in close just to wound him. In a way, Merriell didn’t want to know how Eugene really felt, preferred the illusion of tenderness to nothing at all. At the very least, Eugene was good at pretending to care and, after the hand job, he became quite the gentlemen. From the way he reciprocated—hands firm but gentle, mouth slick, hot, and inviting, words crude enough to make a sailor blush—Merriell almost dared to hope that Eugene loved him too.

One evening, as Burgin and Eugene chattered idly about Florence, Merriell dozed off. He had a vision of his mother, walking at night along the dirt path that led into the bayou behind his grandparents’ house. He rarely saw her anymore, now that his thoughts were always so full of Eugene, and something about her small frame in the moonlight scared him. Something important happened to her on this night.

“Mama?” He called out to her timidly. She startled, turning partway to face him, eyes big and terrified. Merriell’s heart ached at the sight of her, one arm curled protectively around her pregnant belly, dog tags dangling from her clenched fist. This was the night that she learned his father died. “Mama, it’s me, it’s Merriell.”

He held his hands up placatingly as he stepped closer to her. She looked younger than he’d ever seen her before, couldn’t have been more than eighteen with those naïve, green eyes. Her voice quivered, tears dripping from her jaw onto her coat when she spoke. “What do you mean? Are you real?”

“It’s the foresight. I’m your son. I’m real but I’m not here.”

She whined, like a wounded animal, and placed a hand over her mouth shaking her head. “No, I ain’t ever had a vision when I’m awake.”

Merriell couldn’t think of what to say. She’d just lost the love of her life and no words could lessen the blow. He stood there, useless, watching her pace back and forth in the road and cry.

“You look nothing like him!” She finally shouted, whirling to face him.

“I’ve always been a spittin’ image of you.” His reply seemed to distress her even more and she hid her face in her hands. He moved closer, wanted to hold her, to soothe her. He thought of how she told false fortunes just to give people hope. “I know it hurts now, but you’ll be happy again one day.”

“Happy? How will I ever be happy?” Her hands fluttered restlessly from her neck to cover her mouth and back again. Her sorrow choked her, and she struggled to swallow it down. “It kills me to think that I’m gonna go through this alone, that you grow up without him. That he’ll never hold you, never love you. I’d give anything to have him back.” She pointed a finger at him accusingly. “An’ I can see you’re lying to me, I see the sadness behind your eyes. It doesn’t get better, it ain’t ever gonna get better. I shoulda listened to _Maman_. She was right, this kind of magic comes with a price an’ I was a fool to think I could pay it.”

Apprehension trickled slowly down Merriell’s back. Foresight was strong magic; piercing through the veil of time and space for a glimpse of what was or could be. He’d heard of spells that required a trade to use but hadn’t considered that the visions needed more than the innate magic he gave up for them. He couldn’t control when they happened, for one thing, and it seemed an awful oversight to possess an ability that took things without you knowing.

Before he could ask what she paid, Burgin shook him awake. “Hey, you’re about to set your pants on fire.”

For a moment Merriell felt like hitting Burgin but then he caught sight of the cigarette burn on his trousers and swore. He chucked his still-lit cigarette into the ashtray and rubbed at the singed fabric. Just what he needed, another reason for the MPs to bitch at him. He glared around the room as his bunkmates laughed at him—all but Eugene, who regarded him with his telltale curious head tilt.

“Fuck this.” He threw on his jacket, stuffed his smokes and lighter in the pocket, and shoved his feet into his boots.

“Hey now.” Burgin set his hands on Merriell’s shoulders, stalling him. “Didn’t mean to upset you. Now it’s out you can go back to sleep. Little mark like should come out easy enough with a good soak and some salt.”

Merriell pushed past Burgin. “Not done smoking.”

Snow drifted into the garrison courtyard. Nodding curtly to the men on guard duty, Merriell stepped out onto the frosted grass. Shaking, fingers already freezing, Merriell lit a cigarette. Winter in Peking was colder than in Louisiana and Merriell had never seen snow in real life. He watched it fall and inspected the tiny crystalline flakes settling on the arms of his jacket. He’d never felt more alone, traces of his mother’s grief chilling him to the bone, so deep he might never be warm again.

Nothing made sense to him. What magic did she pay for and why? The types of spells one used ran in the family, so it couldn’t be the foresight, or else Merriell wouldn’t have it. Or maybe they were cursed. He’d heard of cursed families before; families whose casters had no choice in the kind of magic they used due to a feud they’d started or a spell they cast when they shouldn’t have. Maybe Sheltons’ were cursed so that they couldn’t use light magic without paying a steep price.

Footsteps crunched in the grass behind him and Merriell hunched his shoulders, keeping his head down. Eugene’s calm voice shattered the still night. “Burgin’s worried about you.”

“’m fine,” Merriell mumbled. He tucked his nose into the collar of his jacket, wishing he could hide. He wanted to go home, wanted the Marines to release him from their iron grip and let him disappear into the swamps surrounding New Orleans. 

Eugene’s hand settled warm on the nape of his neck. Merriell shot him a look. Such a touch was too friendly for a public place, and either Eugene didn’t care or the guards weren’t within eyesight. He plucked Merriell’s cigarette from his fingers and took a drag. “What’d you see?”

“Didn’t see nothin’,” Merriell lied petulantly. Eugene squeezed his neck gently.

“Now we both know it’s best for you to be honest with me.” He flicked excess ash from the tip of the cigarette and it blended in with snow, floating off into the night air. “Something spooked you. The instant Burgin woke you up all the color drained from your face. And now you’re sad, sadder than I’ve ever felt from anyone. And scared…So what’d you see?”

Merriell chewed his lip, considering whether he should tell Eugene about his parents. As a rule, they had not talked about their home lives much during the war. Now that it was over, they’d broken that rule a few times but generally stuck to non-familial topics. Of course, Merriell knew some things. Eugene’s father was a caster and his mother and brother were mortal. He had a dog once and a crush on his best friend’s sister. But still Merriell felt that the things they shared weren’t equal. Eugene got to know so much about Merriell’s fears and desires while everything Merriell knew about him was superficial. 

“Can I ask you somethin’, Eugene?” Eugene quirked an eyebrow but nodded, giving back his smoke. Merriell accepted it eagerly. “Do you care about me?”

Eugene looked shocked at the question, eyes widening. Merriell shivered, smoking nervously as he waited for his reply. His fingers twitched against the knobs of Merriell’s spine. Eventually, he laughed but it sounded disingenuous, high and forced. “Well, of course, what a stupid question.”

“I mean it, I can’t tell you about this if you don’t.” In all the time that Merriell had loved Eugene, he had never once wanted to be loved back; but the memory of his mother, alone in her mourning, left him yearning for some greater comfort. If he was going to lose someone dear to him as payment for his magic, he wanted to have held them close first.

“Merriell,” Eugene sighed. “That’s hard for me to answer. You know as well as anyone how the darkness numbs everything. I don’t know what you want me to say. I’m glad that you’re here. I’m relieved that you didn’t die. I’m sorry that you feel so down, and I want you to feel better, but asking me for that is asking a lot right now.”

Merriell nodded, a lump forming in his throat. Tears prickled at the corners of his eyes and he blinked them away stubbornly. “Do you think you’d feel different if you were still light?” 

“If I were still light I wouldn’t be here.”

“That’s not what I asked.” Merriell dislodged Eugene’s hand, taking a step back so he could face him straight on. Eugene’s nose and ears were bright red with cold, contrasting sharply with his pale skin. In the absence of the tropical sun, Eugene’s skin became so white it practically glowed. He was speckled with freckles too, irregular shaped and sized, as coppery in color as his hair. With the snow falling on him, catching in his hair and eyelashes, Merriell thought he looked especially beautiful.

“Merriell,” Eugene said, tone pleading and exasperated. He looked around the courtyard and Merriell couldn’t tell if he was avoiding his gaze or searching for prying eyes. Eugene wrung his hands, like he was aching to touch him, to feel what he was feeling so that he could tell the best lie.

Shaking his head, Merriell started to move past Eugene, intent on taking his chances with the MPs and sneaking out into the city. “Forget that I—”

“I don’t know what you want me to do.” Eugene placed a hand to his chest, stopping him. “But I’m trying, okay? I don’t know how to return to the light, can’t even say that I want to, and if you want me to tell you I love you I will, but you gotta know that those words don’t have meaning for me anymore.”

Merriell’s heart pounded and he couldn’t tell if he was excited or angry. He knocked Eugene’s hand aside. “I don’t need you to lie to me.”

“God, why are you making this so hard? It’s like you’re trying to torture yourself. You were dark once, you know how I’m going to answer these questions. Why do you insist on asking me things when you know you won’t like the answer?” Eugene’s breath clouded in the air around his face as he ranted. “Don’t get pissy with me for lying to you. If I’m lying, it’s to make you feel better!”   

Merriell’s temper flared at Eugene’s words. “Oh, so it’s fine for you to lie but not me? What you think this is, some one-way street? Maybe I wanna keep some things private. Maybe I don’t want you gettin’ up in my shit.”

“You brought me into your shit! You opened yourself to me, Merriell. I didn’t ask that of you, that choice was all yours.”

“You think I knew what I was doing?” Merriell fisted his hand in the collar of Eugene’s uniform jacket, spoiling for a fight. “I was just helpin’ you out, not givin’ you permission to fuck with my head!”

Eugene’s eyes glittered dangerously and Merriell felt white-hot fury race electric up his spine. “You’re so fucking stupid.”

Merriell managed to punch Eugene once in the face before the guards jumped in, pulling them apart. Eugene settled quickly, the type to stew quietly in his own rage, but Merriell needed an outlet for all the pain he’d felt that night. He fought the guards when they tried to restrain him and when the MPs were called he fought them too. They beat the shit out of him, four against one being poor odds to begin with, and dragged him to the brig.

They served him two weeks in isolation on insubordination charges. They wanted to extend his confinement, on account of the many times he’d left on a day pass and not returned by nightfall, but the MPs couldn’t prove to the higher ups that he hadn’t come back to the garrison. Apparently, not being able to confirm a person’s exact location was enough to raise reasonable doubt. Merriell laughed when Burgin explained the situation to him.

“This ain’t no laughing matter, Shelton,” Burgin warned sternly as Merriell laughed so hard he wheezed on the floor of the brig, clutching at his bruised ribs. “If they had confirmed those charges, you’d be in here six more months at least.”

“Can’t say I’d mind. Kinda nice, havin’ the whole cell to myself.” Merriell grinned crookedly. His right eye and cheekbone were still swollen from the fight. The MPs were so mad at him, they’d neglected to send a medic to check on him. Burgin had to bring him a damp rag, so he could clean the blood from his split lip and busted knuckles.

Burgin sighed, hands on his hips and feet shoulder-width apart in what Merriell recognized as a frustrated stance. Both Burgin and Eugene used it when they thought he was being unreasonable. “Don’t you care about going home? We rotate stateside in late February. I’d hate for our company to have to leave you behind.”

Merriell had nothing to say to that. When Burgin left, he sprawled on the floor and stared at the ceiling. Thinking about home made him morose. He loved his family and missed them dearly, even his cousin Jean, who really only pissed him off because they were so similar. But he knew that they wouldn’t understand why he had changed. He tried to imagine their reactions, a mixture of disgust and maybe some ‘I told you so’s’ from the aunts who asserted that his mother made him weak. He couldn’t decide if it would bother him to be the black sheep, to know that they pitied him the way they pitied her.

Not once did he entertain the idea of keeping Eugene with him after the war. The achingly domestic visions still plagued him, but he couldn’t see any way for them to come true. Casters were less disturbed by homosexuality, especially his family, but the world at large condemned it. To follow Eugene back to Alabama was not an option, not with his high society Christian mother, and it was insane to think that Eugene would run away with him. Nobody in their right mind would give up their friends, family, and inheritance for Merriell ‘SNAFU’ Shelton.

Counting the cracks in the cement overhead, Merriell twisted the willow wood ring on his finger. He’d become desensitized to the low-level static it emitted, but he still liked to fiddle with it. Fleetingly, he contemplated whether a love lost was the price his mother paid for her magic and, if so, was his price a love he couldn’t have.

—

That night Merriell dreamt that they were on a train. Seated at a little table, sunlight streaming hot and bright into the car, they watched Burgin’s family greet him. A small boy, likely a younger brother, ran to him and Burgin swept him up into his arms, embracing him fiercely. Merriell turned his gaze from the private moment to find Eugene observing him thoughtfully.

“What?” He grunted around the cigarette between his lips.

“Just wondering who’s picking you up from the station.” Eugene smiled that smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He picked up his glass of cola and sipped at it.

Merriell shrugged. He hadn’t written anybody about coming home. He still had the keys to his mother’s apartment in the personal effects he’d picked up from Camp Pendleton. He vaguely remembered leaving the place in the care of his Aunt Celeste but couldn’t be certain she’d still be there. Regardless, he was sure to find somewhere to spend the night. “Want some time to myself before they all crawl outta the woodwork, wantin’ to gloat. What about you?”

“Asked a mortal friend of mine, Sidney Phillips. He was in the 1st division on Gloucester and Guadalcanal actually. He won’t know, won’t ask any questions. It’ll give me time to think on how to break the news to my father.”

“You didn’t write him?” Eugene didn’t talk about his father much, which Merriell found curious because he imagined they should be close. After all, Eugene had magic while his older brother didn’t.

“Kind of hard to describe in a letter. This sort of thing ought to be explained in person.” Eugene played with his glass, sliding it around through the condensation on the table. He looked up at Merriell through his lashes. “Mind if I bum a smoke?”

Smirking, Merriell pulled a cigarette out of his pack and held it out to Eugene. “Thought you were quittin’.”

“Last one,” Eugene claimed, taking it between his slim fingers. Merriell flicked open his lighter, deftly spinning the spark wheel to ignite the flame. Eugene leaned in to light up and Merriell drank in the sight of him; bluish circles under his eyes from the lack of sleep, freckles dotting his cheeks like constellations, pink lips pursed around the cigarette. Exhaling heavily, smoke billowing out of his mouth, Eugene sat back up and settled against his sea bag. His red hair stood out, vibrant copper against the olive drab fabric. Merriell thought the color green suited him. The sun beaming through the window caught his irises just right, appearing bronze in the bright light, warm and alive. He looked good, relaxed, almost happy. It hurt to look at him.

Merriell got lost in the bubbles dancing up the sides of Eugene’s soda, the realization that they would soon be parting ways sinking into his bones. Like railroad tracks at a junction, their paths were diverging, parallel, never to meet again. Eugene would go back to his rich boy Southern Baptist life, attend college and earn a white-collar job, and Merriell would pick up an honest career, something laborious but respectable like construction work. They’d get married—Eugene to a sweet, mortal girl he met at church and Merriell to some broad he knocked up after a night of drinking. They’d each have two kids, all boys, all smarter than their fathers. And for the rest of their lives, they’d hide what the war had done to them; Eugene carrying a darkness black as tar inside him and Merriell drowning in his love for a man he could never have. He could see it, almost smell the paint of the white picket fence as the Texas countryside rushed past them.

Sometime between Houston, Texas and Lafayette, Louisiana, Eugene fell asleep and Merriell made a decision. The willow wood ring was the only constant in all of his visions. No matter which way he looked at it, one day Eugene would hold this ring. When the train pulled into New Orleans, Eugene didn’t wake up. Merriell hated goodbyes, didn’t think he could even say it to Eugene without making a scene. In his mind’s eye, he shook Eugene awake and begged for him to tell him he loved him, even if it was a lie, just so he could hear it for the first and last time. Instead, he slipped the willow wood ring off the middle finger of his right hand and into the left breast pocket of Eugene’s uniform jacket. Then he disembarked and never looked back.

—

Several months later, the train dream came true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that’s a wrap. Sorry for leaving it on a sad note, but this ending made the most sense. Thanks for reading!


End file.
